A Hateful Vengeance
by love97
Summary: FINISHED W EPILOGUE. Spot's life was back on track until something from the past surfaces again.
1. Prologue

"We crossin' the bridge?" Spot Conlon asked his long-time and childhood best friend Patrick Johns, better known as PJ.

PJ stretched his arms high over his head and took a look at the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nearly midnight and the cool September air had a slight breeze. PJ pushed his dark brown, shaggy hair out of his honey eyes. "We gotta sleep, Conlon."

The two fourteen-year old boys were on their way home from Manhattan after visiting fellow newsies for a poker tournament. It was being held at their lodging house and it was mostly Manhattan boys with a few Brooklyn boys. Usually the poker nights consisted of a few rounds, but since it was a tournament it had lasted for a few hours and rum and whiskey were snuck in. Both boys had a few drinks, but Spot was drunk and stumbling all over the place. PJ agreed to stop drinking while he was ahead for the walk back home.

Spot took off his gray hat and spun it around slowly on his fingers. "Why don't we'se just sleep there?" he slurred in an agitated tone as they started the bridge.

"'Cause then we woulda had to get up earlier and walk all the way back in the morning. It's just easier dis way."

The coins in Spot's pockets jingled as he tripped over himself. He had had the most drinks out of everyone to celebrate his victory that night. It was amazing that someone as tipsy as he had miraculously won the pot with a very lucky royal flush. He took out one of coins from his pocket and the sling shot, his weapon of choice, from his belt loop. Without much energy he stopped at the bridge rail and placed the coin to shoot it into the water. Weakly he let go of the sling shot's end and tried to pinpoint where the coin went in the dark. He looked around, completely dumbfounded as to where it could be. PJ stood next to him as Spot turned around furiously trying to locate where it went. PJ took out a cigarette and matches, and lit it up blindly in the dark.

"It went off da bridge, smart one," PJ finally told him sarcastically. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and took a long drag, exhaling the smoke above his head.

Spot gave up his search and plopped down on the ground with his back against the ledge. He held the sling shot in front of his face and examined it closely. It was worn down a little bit and formed to his fingers at the handle from its frequent and dependable use. Looking up at PJ he noticed he had a cigarette. "Ya got any more?"

PJ let out a small, amused laugh; Spot couldn't be trusted with much of anything while he was intoxicated. He would probably end up burning himself or catching his clothes on fire. Then he would blame PJ for allowing him to do that. "Sorry. Last one."

"Damn..." he said slowly.

There were a few other people walking the bridge back to the Brooklyn Lodging House that night. One of them was their eighteen-year old fearless leader, Spits. He walked with a sense of importance and anyone who crossed him was sure to be sorry. In one of his suspender loops was a black gold-tipped cane that played into his entire image as the feared and respected ruler of the Brooklyn newsies. He walked by himself without needing an entourage or bodyguard. No doubt he was returning from the Bronx for a meeting with its leader regarding territory issues. Spits' newsies knew about it but didn't have the balls to ask him what would be happen at the meeting. Whenever leaders met it meant important and secret business.

"Hiya, boys," Spits greeted in a calm and cool tone.

Spot looked up at him with his piercing grey-blue and now dilated eyes. The moon provided just enough light for him to recognize him. "Hey, Spits." He raised his arm up high and waved, shaking Spits' hand violently.

Spits had a creeping smile growing on his face. "Heard about the poker tourney uptown. Good ta hear one of my boys won."

PJ turned around and stomped out his cigarette. "He got lucky." Bringing his palm up to his face he spit in it lightly as Spits did the same, and shook each others' hands. PJ wanted desperately to ask him how the meeting went, but couldn't. It was on the tip of his tongue and he had to bite his lip to hold it in.

"It's gettin' late. You rememba the back way in?" Spits asked him. The curfew at the lodging house was eleven, and if they were back any later there was hell to pay.

"Yeah. Up the fire escape and through da back window."

"Good. See ya boys later." Spits tipped his hat to them and continued his way along the bridge.

Spot watched him and squinted his eyes. He looked up at PJ, who was taking out a new cigarette, and stared for a few moments. PJ looked back down at him.

"You gots somethin' ta say?" he questioned.

Blinking a few times he brought his head back down and buried his head in his arms that rested on the tops of his knees. "I'm tired..."

"Yeah, we should probably gets goin'." PJ waited until his cigarette was finished to start back again. After his final drag he tossed the butt over the railing and gently kicked his friend's arm to wake him up.

"What da hell?" Spot reacted quickly. He jumped up and took a couple of steps backward for balance. PJ laughed at him and Spot crossed his arms firmly over his chest.

"All right, let's go," PJ decided. And so they slowly made their way home.

At around the halfway point, distinct and seemingly mad footsteps were heard behind them. There were a few snickers and hushed talking too. Spot was completely in a daze and just continued walking. PJ got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and he slowed his pace a little bit. Finally he spun around in one quick motion to see two tall and bulky guys standing angrily before him. The darkness of the night shielded their faces but the outlining over the bodies was still very noticeable. Although, the moon did show a scar in the shape of a B on one of the guys' forearms, and PJ knew who they were in a heartbeat. He didn't like the answer to that either.

"Isn't it a little late for yous guys ta be out?" one of them asked in a raspy voice.

"What d'you want?" PJ queried. His fists were clenching at his sides.

"Oh, we just wanted ta have a lil' chat with ya, dat's all," another piped up.

Spot finally turned around and took his place next to PJ. The guys towered over the two as they glared at one another.

"What d'you want in Brooklyn? The meeting's over," PJ reminded him, now getting even more angry.

"Not for us." One of the men swiftly threw a punch directly at PJ's face, hitting him square in the mouth. PJ stumbled a little bit backward, but came right back up again to knock the guy hard on the cheekbone. They stood there throwing punches for a few seconds at each other and eventually PJ tackled him to the ground.

The other guy shot his head toward Spot and gave him a threatening look. Spot swung his arm quickly at him, but it wasn't quick enough as he ducked out of the way. Instead of hitting Spot in the face as he was expecting, he pounded his stomach with punches repeatedly until Spot fell over backward, clutching his stomach in agony. Since his reaction time was slowed down because of the alcohol, he swung absently at the air, trying to hit his attacker. He was still on his back, giving the guy a perfect chance to do even more damage. The Bronx thug bent over Spot's midsection and proceeded to swiftly take out a knife from his pocket. Spot saw the blade glisten in the moonlight for a split second as he tried to fight the guy off by shoving, kicking, punching, and doing everything he could in his weakened power. This was completely uncharacteristic of Spot and a first that someone had gotten this far in a fight with him.

While still trying to pin down his own attacker, PJ glanced back behind him to see if Spot was okay. He noticed the guy standing over him with a death grip on his knife and holding it over his friend.

"Spot!" PJ screamed with fear and anger running through him. He jumped off of the guy and ran over to the other two. Spot lay helplessly and already bruising on the ground. The guy that was beating the shit out of him took the blade and scraped along his shoulder in a fast motion, leaving a long and thin laceration. Instinctively PJ tackled the guy to the ground and sat over his stomach trying to get the knife out of his hand. Spot managed to get to his knees but instead of assisting PJ, like he would normally have done, he crawled nearly six feet away and began to vomit uncontrollably.

Almost three minutes passed and PJ still was struggling over the thug. His biceps were already sore from fighting, and with all the energy he could muster he knocked the guy in face with his left arm and stole the dagger from him with his right. Not intending the stab him, he got off of him and went over to Spot who had taken a break from puking and was now lying along the ground.

A pair of cops was seen and heard blowing their whistles wildly and sprinting over to the four boys. It was unusual since the cops were not likely to be found after a fight like this.

"Beat it!" shouted the one who PJ was first fighting, and he got to his feet and darted in the other direction.

PJ looked back to see the cops nearing them. He shook Spot's shoulder furiously and tried to help him up. "Conlon, let's go! We gotta get of heah!" PJ's attempts at helping his friend were wasted as Spot fell back down every time he tried to get up. "Come on!" PJ looked back again and saw the guy who was on the ground ready to ram right into them with another blade in his hand.

Without thinking and with his mind going a hundred miles an hour, he stuck the knife into the attacker's stomach just as he was charging into him. The thug bent over, clutching his stomach in pain and agony as he dropped to the ground in defeat. PJ watched in disbelief and shock. Although it was in pure self-defense, he never intended to kill anyone; never. He let the knife slip from his hand as it tumbled to his feet. Knots churned over in his stomach as suddenly everything was quiet and motionless.

He looked down at Spot, who was still breathing but looked unconscious. His eyes went back to the cops who raced to him and pinned his arms behind his back as they dragged him away. Tears ran down his face and the other cop inspected the now dead attacker.

"Conlon!" PJ yelled, "get up! Spot!" His voice fell dead as he watched the scene become more and more distant.

Spot managed to open his swollen eyes as he eyed his best friend being taken away. Blood trickled down his arm from the deep cut on his arm. Never had he been in so much emotional and physical pain. It was almost like he had blacked out and he was just now waking up. The last thing he could remember was the glint of the blade.

Although he wouldn't remember the chain of events before this, he would never forget the sight he was seeing before him at that very moment. It would stick with him for as long as he lived.


	2. Even Kings Have Blue Days

* * *

The sound of a bird chirping at the Brooklyn Lodging House window just before dawn caused Spot to awake, annoyed. He sat up from his bunk and peered at the stupid bird that was making such a raucous. For some time he considered smacking the window to scare it off, but it would wake everyone else in the room up. Although, since he was now the leader of the Brooklyn newsies, they couldn't get mad or hold a grudge.

It was still dark out and he could see the sun starting to rise slowly over by the docks. Spot let out a powerful yawn and rolled his head around. The irritating bird was still there and just as he was bringing his arm up to swat at the window, it flew away. All that noise and his waking up were for nothing. He sympathized for his fellow newsies now; he was put in an extremely bad mood. Not only was he an unpleasant person to be around in a bad mood, but it was known to last all day. He plopped his head back down on the pillow and put his arm over his head, trying to fall back asleep.

Creaking footsteps on the wooden staircase could be heard subtly from far away and Spot's eyes opened again. He just couldn't seem to catch a break! The caretaker, who was reaching his sixties, trudged into the room and proceeded to wake everyone up with shouts of "time to wake up!" and "out of bed!" Occasionally he stopped at a bed and nudged someone out of sleep and back to reality. The boys groaned and grumbled in sleepiness as they reluctantly arose from their beds.

Spot jumped off the top bunk and pulled on his brown suspender pants, letting the straps hang loosely at his sides. He began to make his way toward the sinks, a little more awake now that he got out of bed. It still didn't hide the fact, though, that he was disturbed terribly this morning. Bringing his hand up to his light brown, longish hair, he shook it a little and pushed it away from his forehead. He stopped at one of the sinks and turned on the water. Without testing it too much, he cupped his hands to fill them with water and swiftly brought them to his face. The water was cool and awakening as it ran down his cheeks, and caused a few droplets to tumble down his perfectly chiseled abs. Carelessly, he didn't wipe them off and just patted his face dry.

He finished his regular morning regimen within a few minutes and started to walk downstairs, still buttoning up his navy blue shirt. Bolt, his second-in-command, waited for him at the last step. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest and his brown hat drooped over his eyes. Spot made the assumption that he was out late last night and was still catching up on some of the sleep that he missed. As he put his feet on the last step he took the hat off Bolt's head and smacked him in the face with it jokingly.

"Rise and shine," Spot told him.

Bolt jerked his head up, revealing a partially swollen black eye on his left.

"Dat looks like it hoit," he pointed out. "What happened?"

"Let's not talk 'bout it," Bolt replied in a groggy voice. Spot wasn't surprised at the shiner on Bolt's face; he was always getting in way over his head. Most likely he was gambling or collecting on a bet that didn't go so well. It was typical for him, though.

They walked out into the crisp morning air ahead of the other newsies. Spot received the normal greetings from people who worked at the docks or outside, and he tipped his hat to them and gave a small wave. Bolt strode next to him, but did not feel inadequate or inferior. He knew he played the role of the sidekick and he knew he could never measure up to the mighty Spot Conlon, who rose to power nearly two years ago when they were fifteen. But as his second-in-command he had a duty of replacing the ruler if anything should ever happen to him; although, with Spot in charge that was highly doubtful.

The distribution office was about a ten minute's walk from the lodging house and it was where the newsies picked up their daily papers to sell. One by one the boys lined up to the distributor and collected their papers. The most experienced and most confident ones usually purchased a hundred to sell, while the younger ones shot around thirty or forty. Spot, of course, was always one of the experienced and confident ones. He had been at this game for almost his whole life.

The headlines that day were a little weak given that the news was slow. It would be a long day of exaggerating and telling lies.

"Who writes dis shit?" Bolt asked while they sat on a bench at the office, reviewing the day's paper. "'Baker's dog responsible for stolen baked goods'? Is dat all we got these days?"

Spot let out an amused laugh, but silently agreed. For the past few weeks nothing rich had made the news and it was starting to take its toll. Headlines were getting worse, and even though they were experts at twisting them, it was still getting more difficult to sell. Spot got up after carrying the papers at his side, his toned and muscular arms flexing to hold the weight. But it certainly wasn't too heavy for him. He said bye to Bolt and made his way toward his usual selling spot for the morning.

With a swagger in his step, Spot strutted along the sidewalks of Brooklyn. He had a determined and slightly pissed off expression, which would not be there on any other day. The combination of the bird this morning and the bad headlines only drove him to sell all of them in a hurry and spend the rest of the day without too much worry. Some girls around his age that were in the street caught sight of the handsome and practically famous seventeen-year old, and began giggling like little school girls. Spot had a way of making anyone of the female gender swoon and fall head over heels for him. Perhaps it was his reputation for being oh-so powerful and courageous, or maybe it was his strikingly good looks that allowed him to get any and every girl he wanted. The downside, though, was that he used his spell to his full advantage and he had cast it upon countless and often meaningless girls in the past.

Soon he was at the corner that he claimed about a year ago and he began to hawk the headlines. First to go was the dumb-ass dog story. With a roll of his eyes and a heavy sigh, he shouted, "Canine criminal prosecuted in robbery scandal!"

Around noon the stack of papers in Spot's arms had reduced dramatically and he was down to his last one. It had taken him longer than usual to sell today and he wasn't too happy about that. He blamed half of this on the journalists' inability to write good articles. Glancing at a dinky little article about dead fish in the river, he quickly thought of something juicy to say. As he was in the process of doing so he noticed a respectable looking businessman in a rush preparing to pass him.

"Killer in the water!" he yelled loudly and impulsively. Luckily, though, the man stopped and bought the paper. Since he was in such a hurry he tossed a dime to Spot, forgetting all about the nine cents as his change. Spot smirked to himself and stuck the coin in his pocket with the rest of his money. His mood had gotten worse through the morning and the extra money didn't make much of an impact, but it was nice to have anyway. He started toward Bolt's spot.

Bolt was finished selling and was sitting on a wooden bench as Spot approached him.

"Was dat not the woist pape you'se eva sold?" Bolt inquired as Spot took a seat next to him.

"It was pretty bad, I'll say," he agreed. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed the temples of his forehead. The morning had given him a splitting headache and his head was pounding.

"You come across that dead fish shit? How desperate are they gettin'?"

Spot nodded without saying anything, giving Bolt the cue to end conversation. For a few minutes they sat in quiet as the noisy streets around them sounded and neither of them said a word. Bringing his head back up he broke the silence by asking how his eye felt.

"I'll live," Bolt said with a shrug. It sure wasn't the first time he had been knocked in the face; newsie life was rough.

"You wanna go eat?" Spot asked in response to his apparent stomach growling.

"Shit, yes." Bolt sounded like he had been dying to ask but was too afraid to. No, he wasn't afraid; he was just "being considerate" of his friend's mood. They got up from the bench and proceeded to make their way to the usual restaurant the Brooklyn newsies ate at, Sonny's. It was only a block away, but Spot just wanted to get something in his stomach and it seemed like the walk was taking forever.

"Make any extra money taday?" Bolt asked curiously.

"Lil' bit. You?"

"Some guy gave me a quarta and told me to keep da change," Bolt replied proudly. But a look of annoyance on the leader's face made him shut up quickly.

Not much conversation took place on the way over. But just as they were rounding the corner to their intended street, a group of younger newsies were walking away from the restaurant.

Spot grabbed a ten-year old by the shoulder and stopped him just as he passed. He didn't intend to hurt him, but nothing was going as planned today. "What's goin on?"

The boy's eyes widened as he looked at his leader's face, anxious and scared. "S-Sonny's is closed fer taday," he squeaked.

The grip Spot had on the newsie's shirt tightened. "Why?!" he demanded angrily.

"I don't know!" the boy responded, terrified.

Bolt tried to hold in his laughter. "Lighten up, man," he told Spot. He was always amused at Spot's actions when he was like this.

Spot did so and patted the small boy in his shoulder. As soon as he did, the boy ran like no other back to his friends. "I just want a damn sandwich," he whined.

"Wanna go ta Manhattan for lunch?" suggested Bolt. Occasionally a small group of Brooklyn boys crossed the bridge to go uptown and have lunch with the Manhattan newsies at Tibby's Restaurant.

"I guess," Spot sighed. So they began their journey to the other side of the river.

They walked briskly to the bridge in silence without much speaking. Bolt assumed Spot still had a headache so he didn't want to bother him too much. Once they arrived at the bridge he noticed Spot picked up his pace quite a bit and his blue-gray eyes seemed to turn to a steely, silver color. Their color could send anyone who looked into them sprinting in the other direction. It was no mystery as to why Spot got anxious or touchy around the bridge; everyone knew what happened that night a few years back. It was a sort of unwritten rule not to talk about it. And nobody ever did.


	3. Ginger Spice and Autumn Leaves

A couple of days passed and Spot grew out of his grumpiness. He slept deeply without any interruption during those nights. The newspapers, though, still sucked and it was still a hard task to sell them. They were on the streets for a much longer time trying to get people to buy the papers, and coming up with better headlines was getting increasingly hard. Luckily, though, it was Friday and there was a show going on at night at Irving Hall in Manhattan.

Bolt walked through the doorway of the theater while scoping out a girl that was making her way in with her friends. "Oh, man..." he pointed to her subtly and tried to get Spot to look. She looked about their age with chocolate brown hair and a small figure. Bolt seemed very interested in "getting to know her".

Spot turned his head to the side and gave her the once over from behind. "Not bad," he nodded.

"Not bad at all!" Bolt continued. They walked further into the entrance and soon they were in the large vaudeville theater. It was practically filled to the brim with newsies in the balcony, at the tables on the floor, and generally socializing with each other. Mostly it was the Manhattan newsies, but there were still many from Brooklyn, Queens, and Harlem. These "parties" were held once or twice a month, and at them Medda, the owner and star of Irving Hall, would perform a few songs.

They went in and took a seat with a few other newsies at a table close to the stage.

"Pretty full tonight," Spot pointed out. "Bettah be some goils heah this time. Rememba da last party?"

"That was just a waste of a night," Bolt replied angrily and shortly.

The spotlight directed at the stage turned on brightly and a petite, red-haired woman with tight curly locks wearing a light blue, intricately sewn dress appeared on stage. The crowd began cheering and applauding wildly. Loud band music started to play and Medda broke out into a cheerful song while dancing lightly around the stage. The crowd whooped and hollered as she paraded around with a huge smile on her face.

Spot felt a soft hand on his shoulder quickly. Before he could turn around, a thin girl took a seat on his lap and planted a seductive kiss on his soft lips. Spot placed his arms firmly on her lower back and began kissing her for a good seven seconds.

"Hey...Ginger," he said slowly after parting. The girl's name came a few seconds afterward as he easily forgot it.

"Missed ya, Conlon," she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her chest "conveniently" placed just below his chin.

Spot smiled devilishly as he felt Bolt's envious eyes on him. He always enjoyed Ginger's greetings; all five times he had seen her.

"Missed ya, too," he said without feeling. He brushed the curly blonde hair away from Ginger's face to give him more room to work with and started to kiss her again. Ginger wasn't too different from all the rest of the girls he had been with; they were usually slim, pretty, and looked almost the same. And they were all insanely easy. But it's not like that was a big deal to him. Ginger, though, was a little bit crazier and more fun. She had a wild side and it was probably why Spot kept her around for so long.

Spot's lips traveled slowly to the side of her neck as he gave her a hickey, which was a signature move of his. Ginger yelped excitedly and brought her face in front of his. He had a mischievous smirk on his face and his eyes became a fiery dark blue. She bit her lower lip and dove in for another kiss.

They were interrupted shortly after by the sound of someone clearing their throat loudly. At first, Spot thought it was Bolt and he got really upset and irritated. He didn't let it bother him, though, and he continued on with Ginger. Neither one of them looked back to see who it was, as they were completely involved with each other.

"Hey!" the voice said again, even louder.

"What da hell?!" Spot said, now frustrated. Ginger turner her head around, equally pissed off.

A girl sat at one of the chairs with her arms crossed firmly over her chest. The expression on her face looked really ticked off and she pursed her lips. Her soft, chestnut-colored hair reached just below her shoulders and laid loosely over them.

"Oh, sorry," Ginger told her. She pulled a chair close to Spot and took a seat in it, crossing her legs dangerously close to his. "This is my friend, Autumn."

Autumn gave a fake smile to Spot.

"Uh, hey," he said blankly. He turned to Ginger and cupped his hands behind her ears as they, once again, started to make out.

Autumn rolled her eyes and positioned her seat facing the stage so she could have more of a distraction from them.

"Hey," Bolt said to her, trying his best to be suave.

She looked at him and finally said shortly, "hey."

"You know, you have da most gorgeous eyes I'se eva seen." Bolt slowly scooted in closer to her, looking into her honey brown eyes with golden specks.

"Thanks," she said without feeling and without looking.

"And talk about dat ass..." he said, subtly pointing to her butt.

Autumn scoffed and gave him a quick slap on the cheek. She jumped up and marched away. Bolt rubbed his cheek.

"Ya really suck when it comes ta goils, man," Spot teased as Ginger kissed her way down his neck. She now straddled his waist on the chair, completely unaware that there were tons of people around them. But by now everyone was used to Spot bringing some sort of girl to the parties that they didn't make a scene.

Ginger popped up and looked behind her. "Where'd she go?"

Bolt shrugged carelessly and sat back to watch the show.

"Ah, shit," Ginger sighed. "Be right back." She got up from Spot and began to walk in the same direction her friend had stomped off in. Spot gave her bottom a little slap as she walked away. He sat up to the table and took a big gulp of his drink. Placing his hands behind his head he leaned back and sighed.

"Cocky little shit," Bolt joked. He was about the only person who was able to get away with saying that to him.

"Ain't my fault you'se get so unlucky."

Bolt rolled his eyes and sat back to watch Medda.

"Thinkin' 'bout callin' it off with..."

"Ginger," Bolt finished.

"Yeah. Gettin' a little tired."

"Do what ya gotta do." Bolt got up and pushed through the crowds of people in the other direction. He seemed particularly annoyed.

Spot smirked to himself and soon got to his feet to look for Ginger. He pushed back his hair from his eyes and thought over what he should say to her. Somehow he forgot what he said to the old girls; something like "it's been fun..." or "it's not working out..." or some kind of shit like that. As he was contemplating this, he ran right into his Manhattan ally and friend, Jack Kelly.

"Hey, Spot!" he greeted with a friendly smile.

"Heya, Jacky-boy," he said as they spit-shook. "How's it goin' dese days?"

"Can't complain." A girl in a white dress walked up to him with an annoying smile on her face. "Dis is Sarah."

Spot raised his hand to tip his hat, but it was near the floor somewhere by their table since Ginger had taken it off during their "conversation". Instead, he gave some sort of wave and a half-smile. Sarah beamed as she twinkled her fingers at him.

"Jack, we've got to meet David," she said in a pure and innocent voice.

"All right, I'll meet you dere in a sec." He gave her a peck on the cheek and she went on her way.

"Goin' soft, are ya, Cowboy?" Spot teased.

Jack smiled. "Least I'll have her more dan a week."

Spot gave him a swift punch to the arm but smirked proudly. "You'll pay fer dat later, Cowboy. See ya later." He continued on his way.

After nearly five minutes had passed and Spot hadn't found Ginger. He was starting to consider that she had found a new guy on the way, and that was not good at all. It wasn't the thought of someone else all over her, it was the fact that she had gotten away from him first. He couldn't let that slip out. The theater didn't have many places left to look, so Spot crept outside for last hope.

It was late evening now around eight o'clock and the sun was just starting to set on the late August sky. A few newsies were on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette or two. He walked to the side of the building and leaned his back against the wall. With a sigh he searched around his pockets for his own cigarettes. Looks like he was all out.

"Not all dat fond of you, but I hate bein' all out," Autumn appeared in front of him with a half-smoked cigarette in her hand, and she held it out for him.

Spot snatched it from her and finished it off. "Thanks," he said as he stamped it out on the ground. "You seen Ginger? She's lookin' for ya."

"And you're lookin' for her to get some more ass, am I right?" she snapped.

"What tha hell'd I do ta piss ya off?" he asked but didn't really care about the answer.

Autumn turned up her nose and made her way back into the theater. Spot pushed himself off the wall and walked up behind her. He wasn't exactly mad that she was acting so much better than him; it was more amusing to him. Just before the entrance to the door, Spot grabbed her arms from behind and trapped them in front of her while he stood behind.

"Aw, let's not get started on da wrong foot now!" he joked as she struggled to break free of his strong grip. "C'mon, we'se could be the best of friends!"

Autumn stopped kicking and moving around. Spot, believing he had won, loosened his grip a little. Autumn quickly brought her right arm in front of her and shot it behind her, punching him in the stomach. Caught off-guard, Spot let go and rubbed the place where he was struck. He was used to taking hits to the stomach and it didn't hurt, but he was more surprised.

"You're sick," Autumn insulted meanly in a low voice. She stalked off back into the theatre. Spot chuckled to himself and turned around to see a few people laughing in entertainment. He stood there for a moment as he watched Autumn shove through the crowds, and noticed he felt a tiny twinge in his stomach. Sometimes the things that went on outside were more interesting than the show itself.


	4. Risky Business

The four small Brooklyn newsies in the water by the docks panted until they finally reached the finishing point at the floating crate. One by one they put their hand out to clarify the end of the race. About six or seven older newsies waited anxiously as they watched with hopes that their swimmer had won.

"All right, all right, who had Roller?" Bolt shouted over everyone. "Roller's the winna! Pay up, pay up!"

Nobody seemed to have a look of relief or happiness as they dug out their change.

"No one had money on da little guy?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Tsk. Tsk. Looks like it's my lucky day, boys!" Bolt held his hand out and everyone gave him their losing penny.

The ten-year old swimmers climbed up onto the docks, shivering and wrapping their arms around themselves for warmth. Their teeth chattered and knees wobbled as they stood there for a few moments catching their breath. Bolt walked over to Roller, the smallest one in the race.

"Ya did good, kid," he said as he patted him on his shaking shoulder. "You'se just bought me lunch! Heah's a penny." He tossed the coin up in the air as it flipped high and back down again. Roller watched it going up and reached out to catch it, but slipped from his hand and through the board cracks into the water. Bolt shook his head and walked away.

The sun wasn't as harsh as it had been the past few weeks as the trees were changing colors and the temperature was beginning to drop into fall. It was a little more windy than usual, making it a bad day to go swimming in the river. But the news was still bad, and gambling was a risky but good way to make some money. However, gambling against Bolt was a big mistake since he had been so experienced at it. He strolled along the streets, whistling slightly and checking out the occasional female beauty. Knowing his bad luck, he didn't even bother hitting on them or even giving them his best line. Besides, they seemed to be under a Spot Conlon spell. The mighty leader made his way toward Bolt with a confident step.

"Mistah Conlon, what is that ya do ta make a goil swoon?" Bolt asked jokingly in a high-pitched feminine voice.

"You'se are pathetic," replied Spot as they stopped at a street corner. "I ain't seen Ginger since last night. You seen her?"

Bolt shook his head.

"Well, I hope she knows we'se are over."

"I'm sure she don't know," Bolt begged to differ. "She was all over you last night before we left. Don't think she got da message."

Spot rolled his neck around stressfully. "She was buggin' me last night."

"What d'you mean 'buggin' you? You guys practically did it at da table. Why d'you think I kept leavin'?"

Spot shrugged carelessly.

Bolt stuck his hand in his pocket and felt that it was heavy with change from selling papers and the swimming bets. "Wanna go get lunch? I'm payin'."

He nodded and they started their way to Sonny's. Today it was actually open and a little bit crowded with people of all ages. They recognized some newsies sitting in the corner booth in the back and made their way to them. Spot tipped his hit to the table as he sat down on the end. Cards were spread out on the surface as they wrapped up a round of poker. Empty glasses and half-eaten sandwiches indicated that they had been playing for a long time.

"You in, fellas?" a short, brown-haired 15-year old named Thompson asked as he dealt new cards to everyone.

"Good luck," Bolt joked as he gathered his cards.

The four other guys laughed at his sarcasm.

Spot squinted at his hand: three jacks and a pair of eights. He always got lucky when it came to this game. Trying his best not to let it show, he smirked to himself and leaned back against the cushions.

"Spot, a few boys from Queens have been sellin' neah my post," Thompson presented his problem. "Been happenin' all week." He tossed one of his cards into a pile and grabbed another.

"Yeah, I'm noticin' da same thing," another put in.

A few more of them agreed with "yeah" and head nods.

"We'se had a problem wit them for a while now..." Spot started as he took his hat off and scratched his head. "Lemme know if it happens again. We'll go talk ta them. But it's not like it's been a major problem."

Everyone breathed a little easier knowing that the territory issue had been put out there without it being spit upon.

They tossed their coins to the center of the table for the bet.

"Call," Spot said.

Each boy laid down their hand and Spot smiled to himself has he put his cards down. "Thanks, boys," he started as he went to gather his winnings.

Suddenly three kings and two tens appeared on top of the money.

"Thanks, boys," Bolt said mockingly at Spot.

The boys snickered quietly as Bolt collected what was his and pulled it toward him. Spot crossed his arms in defeat and sat back. Blonde curls came into view at his side as he blinked a few times to get them out of his eyes.

"Hey, Spottie!" Ginger said in a squeaky voice and sat down on his knee. She lifted Spot's chin and gave him a kiss on the lips. A kiss that was given but not shared.

Spot pulled away and looked into her empty eyes that now looked scared. "Ginger, we gotta talk."

She jumped back to her feet with a look of complete dread on her face. "Are ya serious?"

"What?" Spot asked. The table was silent now and they watched the scene play out on the edge of their seats.

"No, you'se aren't serious, are ya?" Ginger repeated.

Spot got to his feet and stood a few feet from her. "It's just not-"

"You're seriously dumpin' me?" she questioned quietly as her lip quivered.

"Ginger, don't be like dat," Spot told her emptily. "I just don't see dis goin' anywheres. It's bettah dis way."

"How is it better?!" she screamed, her voice suddenly going up on octave. With a sniffle and a tear running down her cheek she sprinted to the door.

Shrugging, Spot sat back down without a care in the world.

"Definitely not one of your best break-ups, I'se gotta say," Bolt pointed out.

The lodging house was uneventful that evening around 8 o'clock. Bolt and Spot sat outside its door smoking some cigarettes and watching the sun sink down into the water. Younger newsies gradually trotted home to get some sleep and a couple of older ones were just heading out for the night.

"So, what are ya gonna do about da Queens boys?" Bolt asked as he took a long drag of his cigarette.

"Well, so far it's not dat big a deal. I mean, are my boys gonna run ta me ovah everything? Thought we'se were tougher dan dat. From what I hoid they'se just been havin' arguments. Nothin' big." Spot took out the black, gold-tipped cane that was in his belt loop; the cane that was passed down to him from Spits when Spot took over as the Brooklyn leader. He twirled it around, as if asking its former possessor what to do.

"Yeah. It's a little annoying how they'se been doin' that lately," agreed Bolt. "Nothin's happened in so long for them ta keep them tough. You'se are just keepin' us all too safe!"

"I'm not sure if dats such a good thing." Spot blew out his final puff of smoke and stamped out the cigarette on the ground.

A small boy trudged his way to the entrance of the lodging house. His shirt sleeves were ripped and a black eye was forming on the left side of his face. Bolt stood up.

"What happened, Roller?" he asked.

Roller looked up and revealed a swollen lip and red cheek. "Couple of guys tried ta steal my sellin' money dis afternoon."

Spot walked up to him and took a look at him. It reminded him of when he was that young and didn't know how to fight back either. "Ya might wanna put wata on dat. Looks like it hoits."

"It does. Tha guys was pretty big, too."

Bolt cocked his head to the side. "Dey from Queens?"

"No, I woulda know if they was Queens."

"Not Manhattan or other Brooklyn boys?"

"No. Dey had 'B' tattoo things on their arms."


	5. Making a Splash

"Ya don't seem too upset, Ginger," Autumn told her as they walked around the docks. It was nearly evening the day after Spot broke it off with Ginger.

"I was at foist," she started, "but I then I noticed the new guy workin' at Sonny's." She twirled a few locks of her hair around her fingers. Her head pointed up toward the sky with a dreamy look in her eyes. "Did ya see 'im?"

"No." Autumn sighed. Ginger always got herself involved in short relationships, so sure that this guy would be _the_ guy. But they all ended the same way; they used her and dumped her. She didn't seem to care or notice it at all. "Maybe you'se should take it easy fer a lil' while. Ya know?"

Ginger looked at her with a dumb expression on her face. "That's no fun."

"Sorry." They took a seat on a few crates as they watched everyone head back to their homes for the night. Tired and worn out workers wiped away the sweat from a hard day's work. Policemen patrolled the streets with absent eyes. A few young adults were starting to emerge for the night.

"I thinks we'se should stay in tonight," Autumn suggested as she kicked her feet around at the bottom of her crate.

"Why?" Ginger asked quickly.

"I'se just not in da mood ta go out. We go out every night."

"So?" Ginger's eyes grew to a fake sad look with puppy dog effect.

"Ging, don't do dat! It's hard livin' with you!" Autumn referred to the fact that they just moved in together at Ginger's aunt's apartment after each living with their families. Ginger's aunt, Kathryn, was young and lively, and for some reason had allowed them to coexist with her. They lived in a small, one-bedroom apartment near the bridge. Kathryn worked as a showgirl at a theatre and made just enough for them to stay with her.

"You pooper," Ginger insulted, pouting. She brought her hand up to her neck and scratched it a little. Her fingers felt a long, silver chain necklace around it. At the end, which reached just below her chest, was a small skeleton key. "Oh, shit!"

"What's 'a matta?"

Ginger pulled out the necklace and held it front of her face. "I forgot ta give dis back at Spot."

"You stole it?"

"NoâI took it from him when he was sleepin' and he doesn't know. At least I don't think so." A sudden look of terror ran across her face. "He's gonna kill me!"

Autumn let out a small laugh. "Sucks ta be you right now."

"Autumn, I'm serious! He's gonna hunt me down and murda me!"

"Ginger, relax," she said between giggles. "Just go give it back to 'im. Betta ya do it now so he doesn't 'hunt you down'."

The necklace dangled there innocently as the key swayed in the small breeze. Ginger didn't move as she stared at it, her face pale white. Suddenly it looked like a spark went off in her mind. "Will you'se go give it to him for me?" she pleaded.

"No! No, no, no," protested Autumn. "It's ya own damn fault for gettin' mixed up with him. I told yas he was a bad idea."

Ginger got up from her seat and stood in front of her, her hand gripping her friend's shoulders. "Please! Please, do dis for me and I won't eva ask ya for a single thing again!" she begged.

"Yeah, I'se believe that."

"Don't make me beg!"

"Ya already are!" she laughed. "And it's pretty pathetic, too."

Ginger stuck out her bottom lip and looked at her intensely.

Autumn sighed heavily and snatched the necklace from her. "Fine," she said reluctantly. "But you owe me big time."

Ginger smiled and wrapped her arms around her tightly, providing no air or room for Autumn to breathe.

"Okay, okay, let go 'a me!" Autumn pushed her back. "Ya like a little kid!" She got up from the crate and stretched her back out. "What d'you wants me ta say to him?"

"Um, just say dat I found it," Ginger answered hesitantly. "No! Say I was going through all da things dat remind me of him and dat was one 'a them! It'll make him feel bad for dumpin' me."

Autumn looked at her, wondering if Ginger was joking or not. "I'll go wit da foist one. I doubt tha second will work." She started toward the place where Spot was usually found, near the lodging house in the docks.

_I do so much fer her_, Autumn thought to herself. She looked at the piece of jewelry that must have had some sort of special meaning in the palm of her hand. _Does he think he can get goils dis way?_ She shook her head to herself and let her arm fall to her side. Not at all, in any way whatsoever, was she impressed with Spot Conlon. To her, he was a cocky, power-hungry dictator with an ego as long as the Brooklyn Bridge.

She wrapped the necklace twice around her wrist, just in case anything should happen to it. It wasn't that she really cared about it; she just didn't want Spot to lash out at Ginger. So really she was just concerned about her best friend.

Out of nowhere a man carrying a big box on his shoulders bumped right into her, causing her to lose her balance completely and plunge into the river. She let out a high-pitched scream as she went under the water and popped back up again. The temperature was cold and her teeth chattered immediately. Her arms flailed as she started to panic. It was almost dark and she couldn't find where the ledge was. She checked her wrist to make sure the key was still there and rubbed the water out of her eyes.

"Ova heah!" a voice came from above her.

Autumn blinked and swam slowly toward a rope ladder that lead to the dock. The weight of her skirt made it practically impossibly to get there, but she managed to as the boy held out his hand for her. Finally she go to the ladder and put a death grip on the stranger's hand as he heaved her up with all of his strength.

Once safe on the dock, she laid there for a few moments, trying to catch her breath.

"You'se all right?" the boy asked, bent over her. "Ya must be freezin'."

She brushed her dripping brown hair away from her eyes and got to her feet. She felt as though she had on about twenty pounds of clothes as she wrung out her clothes. A shiver shot up her spine, causing her to shake a little bit.

"C'mere," he said and wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hands up and down her hands to keep her warm.

Autumn leaned against his strong chest as she let the body heat rush over her. She felt his muscle flex with every caring stroke. A few moments later, she realized she had absolutely no idea who the hell this person was and she instinctively jumped back. He came into view as he stood in front of her, the front of his shirt wet from being so close.

"We meett again," he smirked famously. "'Course not in da best situations, but I ain't about ta pass up a pretty face."

_Shit, why did dis happen?!_ Autumn thought. She shook her wrist and felt the necklace still in tact. "Not heah to visit, Conlon, I just came by ta drop somethin' off." She brought her hand out in front of him.

Spot's smirk disappeared as she grabbed it from her. "Where'd ya get dis?"

"Ginger had it."

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath.

"Hey, don't say dat!" She gave him a quick punch to the arm.

Spot smiled, surprised. "Well, you twos are definitely different! Not a problem, though. I can handle a rough goil."

Autumn scoffed and turned around defiantly.

"Sure you'se don't wanna come inside to dry off a little bit?" he asked suggestively.

"I am not impressed by you, Spot," she protested. "So, don't go actin' all sweet and innocent. Everyone knows your reputation with goils."

Spot moved toward her and stood a foot from her. "Is dat right?"

Autumn looked up at him with pursed lips. "Goodbye, Mistah Conlon." Again, she turned around.

"Just so ya knows, I can see right through your shirt," he called. "I ain't complainin'."

Autumn pretended she didn't hear that as her face burned with embarrassment. The two parted in different directions for the night, subconsciously with each other on their minds.


	6. The Witching Hour

Spot lay in his bunk that night with his key necklace dangling from his fingers above his deep blue eyes. It was close to midnight and the full moon peered in through the window. Occasional soft snores sounded throughout the room full of his fellow snoozing newsies, and there was practically no movement. The boys were sleeping comfortably and sprawled out all over their beds. When nights like this occurred, in which Spot had difficult sleeping, he would usually sneak out and walk around for a little bit. It was usually calm where they lived and uneventful during the night, for most part.

He threw the necklace around his neck and yanked his shirt over his head. Oh-so-carefully he jumped down, making sure not to land on Bolt that was on the bottom bunk. Slipping on his shoes he looked at Bolt to see if he was still sleeping; he was. In fact he slept deeply on his stomach with his thumb partially in his mouth. Spot laughed, amused, and opened the window between their bunk and the one next to it.

The fire escape shook a little bit as he landed on it and stepped down to the ground. It was practically empty out on the street as he made is way over. A few pedestrians strolled around and some drunken men made their way out of a nearby bar. Spot went onto the sidewalk and trotted around aimlessly, hands in his pockets and head to side full of thoughts. Mostly he thought about Autumn and her delivering his key back to her. Why hadn't Ginger just done it herself? But then again, it would have annoyed him it was her. Ginger just got under his skin now.

To him, Autumn was trying to act all tough and send out the message that she didn't take shit from anyone. Spot could easily see through it, though. He knew it was all just an act. But there was something about Autumn that was different from all of the other girls he had been with. Was it the fact that she didn't want him that made him want her? Did he even want her in the first place? Perhaps it was just the chase that intrigued him.

He felt a cigarette in his pocket and pulled it out. Patting around the rest of his pockets he looked for a match.

"Heah," a stranger about his age said. He offered a lit match to him and Spot quickly brought the cigarette to the flame.

"Thanks," he said as he leaned against the window of a closed shop. The boy did the same thing as they stood there silently, inhaling and exhaling the smoke.

"Quiet tonight," he said, trying to spark a conversation.

"Yep," agreed Spot. They looked out to the street and suddenly a middle-aged man stumbled outside and fell to the ground.

"I take dat back," he said with a quiet laugh. "News bettah pick up, though, if ya ask me. That's 'bout the most exciting thing I'se seen in a while."

"You a newsie?"

"Not fer long if somethin' doesn't happen."

"I hear ya. It's been pretty slow for a long time now."

"You heard 'bout da news, though, dat wouldn't make da paper?"

Spot looked at him, puzzled.

"Bronx got a new leader just a few days ago."

This _was_ news to Spot. Usually he knew these things before everyone else. "What happened to da old one?"

"Don't wanna know. I also don't wanna know how dis one got his power, ya know what I mean?"

Spot nodded, now serious and concerned. This was definitely an unusual thing to happen. The old Bronx leader of the newsies was tough, tougher than any other territory of New York. If he was overthrown, how bad was the new guy? "Know who he is?"  
The boy shook his head and stamped out his cigarette on the ground. "But as leadah of Brooklyn, Conlon, I'd watch ya back." With that he turned and disappeared around the corner.

_Who the hell was this guy?_ Spot thought. _Was he from Brooklyn?_ It was too dark out for him to see what he looked like. And was that a threat or a warning? He felt a sharp burning between his fingers as he had carelessly let the cigarette burn down. Dropping it quickly and stamping it out, he rubbed his fingers a little bit.

Making his way back to the lodging house, all he could think about was what that guy had told him. And suddenly he remembered what Roller had said: the boys that tried to steal his money had B tattoos on their arms. All of the devout Bronx newsies engraved the letter into their arms as a sign of who they were and for any newsie to step back in caution. Bronx held the reputation of being rough, intolerant, and often times cruel. They didn't play fairly and most of the other newsies were scared shitless of them.

His pace was quicker as thoughts fluttered around in his head incessantly. It didn't matter that the news was slow anymore, because at that moment Spot realized that everything would be different.

**A short chapter. I promise it will pick up!**


	7. Nervous Knowledge

Burning with determination to finish selling the shit papers for the day, Spot collected the penny from his last customer and headed off down the street. It was cloudy and overcast with an unusually low temperature that made Spot's strong arms become dotted with a few goose bumps. His hat hugged around his head tightly as his eyes turned a silvery gray color filled with concern and, although he didn't want to admit it, fear.

He approached Bolt as he strode up to his corner where he finished his last paper. Bolt sensed that something was up and the same look of concern took over his face.

"What's goin' on?" he asked Spot.

"Did you know about da new leadah?" Spot's tone was firm.

"What?" Bolt made a puzzled face.

"Bronx. Hoid they'se got a new leadah."

Bolt's eyes widened slightly. "When did dis happen? And how did ya find out?"

Spot sat down on a nearby bench and rubbed his forehead. "I think it just happened not long ago. Hoid from someone last night." He paused for a few seconds. "I got a real bad feelin' 'bout dis guy, Bolt. Kinda makes ya think about what he can do if he can overthrow da old one."

"Yeah." Bolt readjusted his hat as he stood in front of Spot on the bench, thinking about the news.

The streets were crowded with busy consumers and merchants. Mothers walked around hurriedly, workers returned to their jobs after taking a short break, children ran around the streets without a care in the world. Spot looked around the city and his surroundings. What was he to do? What if the new leader suddenly showed up in Brooklyn? What was he going to do then? He couldn't let his emotions show, but his feelings were too strong to hide. He couldn't mask them behind the signature cane or slingshot. For once he was completely vulnerable to even the weakest person.

"Ya look a little pale," Bolt pointed out.

Spot tried to ignore him and thought for a couple of minutes. Thompson, another Brooklyn newsie, walked up to them. He was a slightly thin boy of sixteen years, with almost black hair and eyes of the same color. "Did ya hear?" he asked.

Bolt turned around and Spot looked up.

"Bronx?" Bolt asked.

Thompson nodded. "What're we gonna do?"

Spot squinted his eyes at him. "What'd ya mean 'what're we gonna do'? Go about normal and pretend like nothin' different is goin' on."

The two boys looked at their leader and nodded in silence. It was quiet as the three conflicted over the issue. Then, after almost two minutes, Spot broke the silence:

"We'll have a meeting."

"What?"

"I'll have a meeting for all tha leadahs. I'll say it's about territory stuff, and it'll give us a chance to see this guy. Keep it quiet, though. Only you, Bolt, are comin' with me."

Thompson and Bolt nodded again. It was set.

* * *

"He's not even that good-lookin' if ya _really_ look at him," Autumn spoke about Spot to Ginger as they walked back home to their apartment.

"Who?" Ginger asked dumbly.

"Spot. I don't know why everyone treats him like a god or somethin'."

Ginger kicked a small pebble in front of her. "Autumn, admit it: you're attracted ta Brooklyn. You'se just don't wanna say it. It's okay; he's gorgeous."

Autumn stopped in her tracks and placed her hands on her hips. "That ain't true!"

Ginger stared at her with a knowing look.

Opening her mouth and closing it again, Autumn gave up. "Fine! He may be good-lookin', but I still don't like him." They started to walk again.

"Nobody said ya had ta like him."

"Can we just stop talkin' about him please?! God!" Autumn shouted in agitation.

Ginger pressed her lips together trying to hide her smile. One of the essential qualities of a best friend is to recognize when a friend is denying attraction to the opposite sex; and Ginger could do just that with Autumn. But why was she so scared to just admit it? It was the Conlon spell.

Conversing as they strolled along the street, Ginger accidentally bumped into a slender boy with a light brown cap. "Oh, sorry."

Thompson, the boy, glanced back without saying anything. Bolt turned around and Spot looked up.

"Got my key back," Spot said to Ginger with an angered tone.

Ginger stopped in front of the boys. "Sorry."

"Yeah."

No longer was Ginger afraid to talk to Spot now that his precious necklace was back in his possession. She had also moved on from him.

"I said I was sorry, Spot, stop givin' me shit for it," she said defiantly.

Thompson, Bolt, and Autumn all looked at her, wide-eyed. Spot glared at her coldly; it made Ginger step back emotionally. He rose up from the bench.

In an angrily calm voice he said, "Ginger, I can't deal with you right now. Would ya let it go?"

It looked as though Ginger had shrunk a couple of inches. She said nothing. Their conversation was over.

Spot looked at Autumn and tipped his hat lightly to her. Autumn blinked, a little surprised. Frustrated jealousy ran through Ginger and without thinking she reached out to Spot's chest in an attempt to yank off the necklace that was so dear to him. Spot grabbed her thin wrist and pushed it back to her. Ginger gasped and rubbed her hand that now had small red marks forming on it, and held it to her chest.

"I mean it, Ginger. I can't deal with ya right now."

* * *

Within the next few hours, the Brooklyn newsies were buzzing about the sudden and unexpected meeting of the leaders. Usually they had a few days notice before one, but Spot decided on the meeting that afternoon and it was to be held in the evening. The vibe going around was mostly anxious and curious.

"Is it really just 'bout territory?" one would ask.

"There must be somethin' else goin' on," another would put in.

"I wonder what tha new leadah is like," others would say.

Spot paced up and down the dusty, brown floor of the abandoned building. It was once a successful factory, but now its sole purpose was to house the occasional bum and a meeting house if Brooklyn called for a gathering. The walls were still very sturdy without too much damage, and the windows were either broken or extremely dirty. Dozens of crates lay around the second floor room forming a circle. In the center was a lone crate with a lantern burning for its only light, with the aid of the setting sun. The strong smell of dirt and dust filled the air as the light crackling of the flame sounded. Bolt sat on top of a crate and gazed out into the window, anticipating each of the leaders' arrival.

"Dere's Jumper," he pointed to the tall and thin Harlem ruler walking toward the shut-down but still useful edifice. "Look's like he left his little sidekick bitch behind." Bolt chuckled to himself at his own hilarity. "Dat boy's always got some lil' kid hangin' on his side. Weakness, if ya ask me."

Spot ignored Bolt's commentary as he gripped the key dangling from his neck tightly, leaving red marks in his palm. His heart beat rapidly through his chest as his forehead became dotted with tiny beads of sweat. A habit he had never killed was tapping his feet nervously and it had begun to create music against the floor. His mind going a mile a minute, he took a few deep breaths and exhaled slowly.

"Jack's makin' his way up," informed Bolt, "I think Davey's wit him." He jumped down from the crate and leaned far behind him to stretch out his back. "Is dat da smart one?" he inquired with a powerful yawn.

Spot's feet picked up the beat again and sped up without an answer.

Bolt continued to "stretch" and accepted Spot's no response. He swung his arms around and loosened up his wrists. He rolled around his ankles and shook his head violently, grunting occasionally.

"What da hell are ya doin'?" Spot asked him, completely puzzled.

"Oh, ya know," Bolt smacked his face, "gotta be prepared for anything. Can't trust these fellas."

His friend's comic relief relieved Spot a tiny bit and his footwork slowed. Footsteps along the creaking staircase were heard from behind them. Spot rose and took a deep breath. Jumper appeared in the doorway with his head barely reaching the top of it.

"Evenin'," he greeted in his low and soulful voice. He approached Spot and they proceeded with the usual spit-shake. Seeing Bolt in the background, he tipped his dark green cap. "So, is dis gonna take a while?" He took a seat on one of the crates close to the door.

"Shouldn't last more den an hour," Spot answered.

Jumper let out a small groan. "All rights. Betta be worth it."

Spot bit his lip and tried to hold it in; he wanted to yell at him. Obviously it was important if he called them out here on short notice! He rolled his neck a few times and tried to ease the tension. Jack and Davey, citizens of Manhattan, came up to the room; Jack with his red bandana around his neck and look of careful concern, and Davey with his curly brown hair sticking out from under his cap and a look of subtle fear. Jack was the actual leader and Davey was just the brains and strategist. The "walking mouth", as Spot named him upon their first meeting a few years back just before the start of the historic strike.

"Hey Spot," Jack stuck out his hand.

"Hey fellas."

They took a seat and everyone sat in silence while they waited for the others. Shortly upon Manhattan's arrival, the Queens boys marched up the stairs into the room that was slowly growing with tension. Four down, one to go. The thought of the last one sent shivers up and down Spot's spine, and that was very rare.

Almost a half hour passed as everybody waited in the room in almost quiet. It was getting stuffy and the boys were nervously trying to keep busy. Bolt jingled the coins in his pocket, Spot tapped his feet, Jumper snapped his fingers silently. There was a large amount of discomfort going around. Practically struggling for air, Bolt jumped up and picked up a rock lying on the floor. He chucked it at the window and took in the fresh oxygen.

"Ya okay, bud?" Jack asked.

Bolt fell back down to the crate and fanned himself off.

"Screw dis shit, man," Jumper exclaimed. "I gots places ta be!" He got up from his seat and proceeded toward the door. He was stopped suddenly by two bulky dark figures. Put together they practically squeezed through the entrance. Each had thick and scratchy voices.

"Where ya goin'? The meetin' just started."


	8. Tension and Anxiety

Only the sound of the candle was heard throughout the room which was now taken over by the combination of anxiety and apprehension. Bolt, Manhattan, and Queens all remained in place without uttering a word or even breathing for that matter. Jumper looked at the two "guests" and took a step back, but did not back down. He stood at the side of the Brooklyn leader. Spot's heart beat insanely fast, but he tried not to let it show. His feet stood firmly planted into the floor and his arms stuck to his sides with clenched fists. It only lasted for a few seconds, this silence. However, it seemed to everyone there to be an eternity.

"Bronx?" Spot asked roughly.

The Bronx leader to the left rolled up his visibly worn, navy blue shirt sleeve up to his elbow, showing the native B engraving. At his right, the other leader was smiling menacingly at Spot with crooked teeth that proved he had lived on the streets for most of his life.

"You guys got names?" inquired Jumper.

"Smash," the one on the left answered with a scratchy voice that sounded like sandpaper against concrete. Any sort of peep from him caused anyone within earshot to cringe and shudder. "Dis is Crawl." He pointed to his sidekick.

Crawl let out a grunt from his disgusting mouth that was surrounded by a scruffy chin, and crossed his overbuilt arms over his bulging chest.

"Crawl doesn't say much," Smash informed them.

Spot squinted at both of the newcomers. "All rights. Are you-"

"No," Smash cut off. "Pierce, tha real leadah, wasn't able ta make it. Previous engagement, as he told us."

Although very minor, a small weight lifted off Spot's shoulders. But then again, there must have been a real reason this Pierce guy hadn't shown up.

"So, he sent his lowly servants ta deal with his shit? Impressive," Jumper said sarcastically.

Crawl stepped forward quickly and grabbed Jumper's cream-colored shirt collar and lifted his feet a few inches from the ground. Jumper's hands immediately went to Crawl's wrists. Spot's stiff arm flung to Crawl's shoulder and shoved him back. He gave him a cold glare that didn't need words.

"Not heah, Crawl," Smash calmed him down mockingly and pushed his arms down to his side.

Crawl smirked at Spot and stepped back. Jumper shook out his shirt and sat back down to his original crate, muttering things under his breath.

"Let's just get started," Spot announced without taking his eyes off Crawl and Smash.

The two Bronx citizens stomped over to two empty crates near Davey who looked like he was about to piss himself. His eyes were huge and his entire body was frozen. Bolt, from the corner, locked his gaze upon the two and didn't let go.

"Okay," Spot began, "dis is an issue we'se been dealin' wit for a while now: territory. There's been problems wit newsies goin' into the next territory ova. It's gotta stop." He looked around the room: nobody said anything. He noticed Smash staring at him through evergreen eyes with a look that could get under anyone's skin. Smash was not an open book and God only knows what insane thoughts were going through his mind. "S-so, Queens, make sure ya boys stay in Queens. Got it?"

Queens didn't answer.

"Got it?" Spot repeated in a higher volume.

"Got it," one of them finally responded after clicking back into the conversation.

"Any problems in Manhattan or Harlem?"

Jack and Jumper shook their heads. Davey, who was now turning to a pale white, didn't move.

"Any otha things dat need ta be brought up?"

Silence.

"Yeah, I got one," Smash spoke up after a few seconds.

Goose bumps formed on Spot's arms and shot up the back of his neck. He didn't want to hear anything about what the hell went on in the Bronx.

"I wanna know why some territories try ta act bettah den otha ones."

Even more anxiety stepped in. Jumper squirmed in his seat to show the lack of comfort. Spot, with his hands crossed together and elbows rested on his knees, strengthened the clasp in between his fingers. They soon became damp with sweat and he watched Smash intently, trying to figure out how answer this.

"Ya know what I mean?" Smash asked again.

Now he was deliberately trying to get a rise out of Spot. He knew he wasn't really looking for an answer. Spot's knuckles were turning white and the pain was just starting in.

"I think the meeting's over," he gave up. Spot got up and turned to go to the door. It was a very un-Conlon thing to do; just stop like that, letting the other person think they've won. He would have never gone down without a fight, but this was personal. And Smash and Crawl were taking full advantage of it.


	9. Alley Cats and Dogs

Shout-Out! :-)

**Sparks-**you are too cute!! And one dedicated fan, seeing as you are the only one that actually reviews!! lol Thnx a bunch!! I will be sure to read tons of your stuff!!

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"I wonder how the meeting went last night," Autumn thought out loud as she and Ginger got ready to go home from the theatre. Ginger's aunt Kathryn had recently gotten them jobs as waitresses.

"Oh, yeah, that leader thingy." Ginger waited by the door to leave as Autumn collected her things.

Luckily, they only had to work until nine that night but still it was very tiring. Usually, since they were new, they had been working really late into the night. Autumn was taking a long time and Ginger was getting impatient. They were in a room behind the backstage area near the theatre exit. Loud and whimsical music was heard from the stage as the audience laughed and clapped along with the show.

"Autumn, hurry your ass up. I wanna leave!" complained Ginger. She tapped her brown boot-ed foot on the wooden floor.

Autumn ignored her friend's complaints and didn't change the speed at which she was moving. Often times when she did this to Ginger, it was just out of amusement. It was funny to see Ginger act like a five-year that doesn't get her way. She bent down to tie her shoe slowly as a yawn crept out of her mouth.

Ginger scoffed. "Come on!"

At the floor, Autumn almost let out a laugh but held it in. A pair of tall brown pants with a gorgeous man inside them walked past her, almost knocking her over.

"Sorry," he said, revealing his thick English accent, and continued on toward the exit.

Ginger caught sight of him and latched her puppy dog eyes onto him. She put on a sweet smile as he strode past her.

"Evening," he tipped his hat politely to her and opened the door.

Autumn could practically see Ginger's knees weakening as she watched the handsome, and polite, young man about twenty years of age exit to the streets of Brooklyn. Without even glancing back at Autumn, Ginger immediately scurried out the door to pursue this amazingly distinguished gentleman. Autumn already knew that she wouldn't be seeing Ginger for the rest of the night and she laughed to herself.

A subtle yet still audible clash of thunder sounded outside and a flash of lightning soon followed. The roof was yet to be pounded with raindrops, though, and the streets were still dry, waiting to be drenched. Autumn's shoulders slumped as she stood up. If she didn't leave soon she would have to walk in the rain the many blocks to her apartment. She picked up her satchel and bolted out the door.

The streets were pretty crowded, since the show was just ending. Autumn joined the hustling group of Brooklynites and walked briskly through the surrounding people. In determination of returning home without being soaked to the bone, she shoved anyone out of her way with the occasional and insincere apology. It was like everyone around her was one big herd of animals. They bunched together and practically moved as one without accomplishing anything except for migrating at one mile an hour. And then:

BOOM! A crack of lightning lit up over the pack's heads and a downpour began to fall on them. All over the streets umbrellas popped up and people jogged at a faster pace to get home. Autumn pushed her way outside of the group, almost stumbling into the more open street. Shivers took over her petite body as her lower jaw chattered furiously. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair fell into her eyes and she quickly brushed it away as she picked up the pace to get home. The rain soaked through her clothes within a matter of minutes and they became heavy in an instant.

For most of the walk home her head was down, staring at the puddles that splashed up at her every time she stepped. It was no use hurrying now; she was covered head to toe with rain and her lips were turning slowly a light shade of blue. She hopped onto the sidewalk with her squishy boot and looked in front of her. There was an alley that lay before her. She was almost positive that if she walked through its narrow passage and hopped over the tall fence, she would end up on the street her apartment was on. That way she wouldn't have to walk the end of this street, turn right, and walk all the way down again. The alley would definitely shave off a good ten minutes. So she made her way to the dark space that reeked of trash and other mysterious items.

Autumn did feel a slight apprehension to the alley at first, but she was so desperate to get out of the rain that she would do anything to decrease the walking time. The alley was just small enough to fit two people shoulder to shoulder without being squished. From its appearance, Autumn guessed that it was about twenty feet long until the fence. She trotted through the darkened space and dodged trash here and there. At about five feet in, a couple of rats ran out across her feet and she shuddered. _Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, _she though to herself. So she turned around and ended up facing a large guy about her age. He was drenched as well and he stood with a wicked grin on his face. A glint of malice shined in his dark and mysterious eyes.

A loud gasp escaped from Autumn's chattering mouth and she stepped back. The man did not move. Without saying a word, and with regret running through her mind, she stepped to the other side of the guy and attempted to exit the alley. However, another man of the same stature and appearance blocked her and gripped his hands onto her arms with a strong hold.

"Where are you headed tonight, sweetie?" he asked in an abrasive tone.

Autumn was too scared to respond as her mind went to a complete blank. She froze completely with terror and stared at her potential attacker. The hint of rigid breath against the back of her neck confirmed her suspicions that the first person to meet her in the alley was now standing directly behind her. She had heard of girls getting attacked in alley ways, but she never thought she would be a victim of one. Before this, she would always try to think of what she would do in this situation. But she couldn't think of anything.

The thug's fingers pressing into her arms were probably already forming bruises. She struggled to wriggle out of his grip by moving around and trying to get to the other side of the boy. It was no use; these two men had her sandwiched and she couldn't get out. A spine-tingling chuckle came from behind her and the boy in front of her let go for a split second. In one fast motion he bent down and lifted Autumn off the ground, placing her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. She pounded her fists against his back with all of her might as she screamed at the top of her lungs for help. He took her deeper into the alley as she kicked and punched wildly.

Finally, the bully got Autumn to the ground again and slammed her back against the dripping brick wall. It knocked the breath out of her for a little bit as sobs began to escape from her terrified face. The thug looked at her with vicious eyes. His hands pushed her shoulders back towards the wall with great force.

"Don't make too much noise, darling," he scratched.

Autumn delivered a quick punch to his face, but got a hard slap from him in return on the cheek. A thin cut drew blood a little bit but was washed away from the rain. The attacker looked back at his friend that stood guard at the entrance of the alley, and looked back at Autumn.

"You'll pay fer that one, hun." He kept his left arm pushing back her shoulder and used his other one to rip the collar of her shirt down the center.

Autumn screamed loudly and kneed him directly between his legs, sending a small outburst of pain from him. He took hold of both of her shoulders and shoved her to the filthy ground. A shriek followed the thump and splash Autumn's shaking body made against the ground. He stood over her with a brutal and sadistic look in his eyes. Autumn's mind raced around, going nearly a hundred miles an hour. She knew she couldn't stay down and give him an ever bigger chance of doing more harm. She scrambled to her feet but got shot back down from a kick to her stomach. The lump in her throat disappeared as the pain of the blow took over, and she clutched her bare stomach while kneeling on the ground. The thug bent down to her level and forcefully brushed the hair away from her eyes, holding her face in front of him.

His eyes were burning as they made contact with her hers that were drowning in tears. Autumn felt extremely lightheaded but tried to work through it before more damage was done to her innocence. Just as it looked like he would try to do something else, the shadow of perhaps a rescuer appeared behind him. He grabbed the back of the attacker's collar and threw him to the wall powerfully. The thug bounced back from the wall and threw a punch at his own assailant. They fist-fought for a while and pushed each other around. Autumn stayed at the ground, weak and feeble. She looked to the alley entry to see the frighteningly grinned guy knocked out on the ground. She slipped into a dizzy state and lowered her head to the cold ground. The last thing she saw was her assaulter receiving several hits to the stomach, arms, face, and any other place that was vulnerable to hits. The rain pounded her fragile body as she lay there, blinking until her eyelids gave in and closed.

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Its pretty long, but its hard to describe that lol. please please review!! i want feedback soooo badly!!!


	10. Brooklyn TLC

**Sparks**-hmm I dunno?!?! I guess you will find out soon, like in a few seconds!! Hehe..I read "an untold secret" and left a review. You must update!!!

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A small finger poking at Autumn's arm repeatedly caused her to awake from her slumber.

"Think she's dead?" She heard a young male voice say.

Autumn opened her heavy eyes to find herself lying in a particularly uncomfortable bottom bunked bed with blankets covering her. She was pretty sure she had never seen this place before. It was dark with only a few lights on around the room. All around her were bunked beds, and standing beside the bed were two young boys around the age of ten, she guessed. She blinked at them as they stared back.

"Are ya dead?" one of them asked.

"Obviously not," she responded in a groggy voice, and sniffled. She propped herself up to lean against the pillow and looked down to find that she was wearing a brown button-down shirt. "Where exactly am I?"

"You don't rememba?"

She shook her head.

"Roller!" someone shouted while entering the room.

The two boys looked back quickly, surprised and a little bit scared.

"Don't bother her."

Autumn leaned forward and saw Spot, the egotistical king that always got on her nerves, making his way toward them with a small bowl of water and wash cloth.

"Sorry!" Roller apologized without hesitation and ran out of the room with his friend.

Autumn watched Spot as he set the items he had been carrying onto the night stand next to the bed. She felt very awkward at first and didn't quite know what to say.

"Ya feelin' okay?" Spot asked caringly and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Been better," she got out. "What, uh, what happened?"

Spot dipped the wash cloth into the lukewarm water. "Well, I was comin' home from Sonny's when I noticed a goil go into an alley. That'd be you." He tested the water's temperature on his finger. With one hand on her right cheek, he dabbed the cut made by the assaulter on her left cheek with the cloth in his other hand. Autumn winced at the incontact.

"I knew nothin' good would come outta that, so I made my way over just in case. Turns out I was right." His eyebrows furrowed as he took care of her cut. "You passed out in da alley, I took ya back here, got anotha shirt on you, and you've been there for almost an hour."

Autumn looked down at her shirt, noticing that she still had her own shirt on. She was actually impressed that he hadn't stripped her down completely. Her mind raced; what was she supposed to say? How do you thank someone for that? "I'm sorry," she finally said in a somber tone.

"Don't be sorry." He put the cloth down and rubbed her cheek, still holding on to both of them. "It's not you're fault. But I can assure ya, they won't be botherin' ya anymore."

Autumn made a puzzled face. "Do ya know them or somethin'?"

Spot looked at her for a moment. "Kinda." He let go of her face and turned to pick up the bowl to put in the bathroom.

A sharp and somewhat painful cough suddenly came out of Autumn's mouth, followed by a few sniffles.

"Looks like tha rain gave ya a cold," Spot called from across the room.

"Yeah..." Autumn trailed off. She felt even more awkward now that she was awake. Was she supposed to just leave? She didn't exactly feel a hundred percent better; her head was pounding, her stomach still hurt, and all together she felt like a big pile of shit. While Spot was in the other room, she lifted up the two shirts she was wearing. A purple bruise about four inches long and three inches wide was making its way into sight on her slender stomach, an ugly reminder.

"Got battle scars, though," Spot said sarcastically once he saw Autumn.

She looked up at him, blushed slightly, and pulled her shirt back down. Spot took his seat back at the edge of the bed.

"I wish we could see each otha in normal ways," he half-smiled.

Autumn was still speechless. All she wanted to do was thank him and leave. She didn't want to fall for him and the fact that he saved her from those assholes. Or the fact that he was incredibly sweet in taking care of her. Or the fact that he had amazingly deep, ocean blue eyes that she could get lost in for days. Nope, she wasn't going to do that. That was something girls like Ginger did, and she was quite different from Ginger.

"I should probably go soon," she told him and propped herself back up again.

"No," he protested. "You're not going anywhere until at least tomorrow mornin'. You're still out of it."

"Ya think you know what's best fer me?"

Spot smiled. "Right now, yes."

A warm and appreciative smile slipped from her lips and stayed there even though she tried to fight it. "I don't think I thanked you yet."

"No," Spot replied sarcastically.

Autumn's smile grew bigger. "Well, thank you. I really don't know how ta tell ya that. I probably would've died out there or somethin'."

"But ya didn't, so let's not think about that."

A sudden lump emerged in Autumn's throat and lodged itself in there for a while. "I know; but, if you hadn't been there..." Tears filled her eyes rapidly and her breathing was cut short from trying to hold everything in. The lump increased.

Spot reached out and touched her arm gently.

It got to the point where Autumn was practically choking on sobs being held in and tears were creeping out of the corners of her eyes. Her eyes darted to the other side of her and she covered her hand over her mouth.

"It's okay," Spot reassured and moved in to hold her in his arms.

Autumn gave in and embraced him tightly for comfort. Tears flooded her eyes and poured down her cheeks as soft sobs came out of her mouth. Spot rubbed her back calmly. A few seconds passed and Autumn pulled back to the pillow, holding onto Spot's hand tightly. He wiped away tears from her face with his free hand. Autumn sniffled and rubbed her nose. She looked into those sapphire eyes pensively; they dared her to turn away. But she couldn't. She leaned in close to him slowly, mystified as to what would happen next but so certain and content with the outcome.

Spot leaned in as well. Their foreheads soon came in contact with one another. The mutual temptation had never been so great at that moment.

_He isn't so bad_, thought Autumn. _He's actually incredible. _"Have I thanked you yet for savin' me?" she said.

"Yeah," he whispered.

"'Cause I really am...thankful." Autumn's voice too had lowered to a whisper.

"I know."

Spot curled a piece of Autumn's hair behind her ear and looked deeply into her eyes. Autumn gazed back at him and knew what lied ahead of her. She would give in to the enticement. This mysterious force pulled her in closer with every passing moment. This was the end of her trying to resist Brooklyn. And then:

"I think you should get some rest," Spot broke the moment.

It was too late. Autumn Pearson had fallen for the mighty Spot Conlon.


	11. The Morning After

The strong smell of fish filled the crisp fall air near the docks the following morning as Bolt waited outside the lodging house for Spot. His eyes struggled to stay open and he had a splitting headache, as he was suffering from a hangover. Last night he and a few other newsies had traveled to Manhattan to celebrate a friend's eighteenth birthday. Well, he would barely call it a friend seeing as he didn't even know his name. Talk of the party had spread quickly and Bolt was always up for a good time. He had spent the night uptown and walked back this morning to sell, since he had gambled his last bit of money away last night.

Thompson walked up to the lodging house door next to Bolt, sporting a noticeable hickey on his neck. "I wanna die," he joked at his hung-over pain.

"Same here," laughed Bolt. "Great night, though."

"Oh, yeah." Thompson rubbed the place where a random girl had left the hickey.

The boys leaned against the wall and fought to win the war with sleep deprivation. Their eyes blinked slowly and recurrently, and their heads relied solely upon the support of the brick building. Just as they were about the drift off into a bottomless slumber, people started to file out of the lodging house. Bolt yawned powerfully and Thompson reached his arms high over her head in a deep stretch. Spot was last to come out after a few minutes, and Autumn was close at his side.

Thompson pushed himself off the wall and tipped his hat to Spot. "Morning."

"You guys look like shit," Spot greeted cynically.

Bolt stayed against the wall and lifted his hand to give Spot the finger sarcastically.

"I'm gonna excuse that since I can tell you'se was messed up last night."

Thompson looked at Autumn with a weird look, like he had seen her before. "You friends with Ginger?" he asked her.

"Yeah," she replied meekly.

"Oh." An imaginary light bulb blinked on above his head. "Ohh." A smirking grin lit up his face. "You guys have a good time last night, too, I see." He playfully elbowed Spot in the arm.

Spot looked at him and Autumn placed her hand on her hip.

"It's not like dat, Thompson," he finally replied.

Autumn glared at him, offended.

"Oh," Thompson fell.

Bolt let out an entertained laugh and pulled out a cigarette.

"I'll walk ya back home," Spot turned to Autumn.

Thompson and Bolt looked at one another; each wondering what that was about.

It was silent for most of the walk home. Practically no words were exchanged during the ten minutes it took to get to Autumn's place. Now it was awkward. But why? They had talked last night without _too_ much problem. It was almost like the "morning after" without the crazy night.

Autumn twiddled her fingers and watched her boots carry herself the whole way home. Every time she looked at Spot he was staring straight ahead of him, his eyes seemingly determined. It looked like a million thoughts were skating around in his mind. And every time she looked at him or thought about him now, she got a little twinge in her tummy. It certainly wasn't a bad twinge, but in her case it was. She wasn't supposed to be attracted to him. She poked her stomach where the bruise was. _Ow!_ _I need to toughen up._

They finally reached the apartment building.

"So," Spot began, "ya gotta work today?"

Autumn made a face and completely forgot about work. It was the last place she wanted to be. "Yeah," she groaned.

Spot smiled sympathetically. "I bet it's not so bad. At least ya work with Ginger."

"I guess. She can be a handful sometimes."

"Won't argue with that." A small, grateful laugh followed.

Autumn smiled and her heart started to race. The finger twiddling quickened and her palms started to get damp with beads of sweat. She stared at the beautiful features of his distinguished face: his rough jaw line, the part of his golden brown hair that occasionally scraped along his forehead, the natural smile that made her knees wobble, and his eyes. Good god, the eyes. Their gaze could capture anyone within a two-mile radius and render them unconscious.

Or, in love?

Spot casually took her hand in a friendly way. "Well, I hope I'se be seein' ya again, Autumn."

"Me too." _Goodbye kiss, goodbye kiss._

He held out his arms for a hug. Autumn graciously accepted and rested her head on his shoulde. She stayed there for longer than anticipated, hoping for a kiss. Spot rubbed her back and pulled away.

With a tip of his hat, he turned and made his way to the distribution office.

**

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****I am in a writing rut. Writer's block. It took me a long time to write that. I couldn't get the ideas out, and as you can see it didn't work. I have plans for _later_ in the story (BIG plans!) and how it will end (I love the ending), but I was not too proud of this chapter. Leave me some love...and thoughts!!! **


	12. Just Call me Johns

The sun was setting on the Manhattan Lodging House as evening turned to night. The western sky, dashed with dark pinks and oranges, was barely perceptible through the city's buildings, but just enough to display the awe of dusk. A small cluster of newsboys huddled together at the sidewalk, chatting and smoking the occasional cigarette. For the most part it was the older newsboys making up the group. The younger ones stayed inside waiting for slumber to greet them for the night. Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush, Specs, and Skittery listened with amused smiles as Racetrack Higgins rounded out one of the many stories of times at the track. Racetrack was always good for some comic relief.

"...And once he realized who won, he flipped out completely, chucking his money all ova tha track!" he finished.

The group chuckled. Racetrack lit a cigar and sighed.

"Ya hear about Bronx?" he asked on a more serious note.

Talk about buzz-kill. They nodded sternly.

"Where'd he come from?" Mush inquired.

"Yeah, I neva heard of him before," Blink added.

"I heard he just got outta tha refuge," Skittery answered.

"Doesn't mean he's _dat_ bad!" Jack reminded them.

Nervous laughter rumbled around and stopped quickly.

"Still...it's like he came outta nowhere," Specs said. "Everyone gets tha same weird feeling about him, though."

"Dat's weird," Mush stated the obvious.

"He got a name at all?" Skittery asked.

"Pierce," said a mysterious voice from behind them.

Startled by the newcomer, everyone jumped and turned around. Approaching them with a hard swagger was a tall, muscular eighteen-year old with short brown hair and sharp brown eyes. His expression was strong and indomitable, making each of the boys almost quiver. They clairvoyantly planted their feet into the cement, predicting this person was trouble.

"_I_ hear he's terrifying. Worse than any otha leadah there was," he continued and slowly made his way toward them. His shirt sleeves tightly hugged his muscles. His face was rough. A two-inch long scar was visible on the left side of his forehead. To call him tough and intimidating would be an understatement.

Jack took a step forward as if trying to make it clear he was the leader of this borough. "Where'd ya hear that from?"

The stranger looked from side to side. "Around," he said in a low voice, almost in a whisper.

Jack nodded. "And where d'you sell at?"

Shallow, honey-colored eyes squinted back at Jack. "You Jack Kelly?"

"What area are ya from?" he firmly repeated.

The boys behind them adjusted their stance and prepared themselves for whatever might come up.

After a few seconds to ponder, he replied, "Technically I ain't from around here."

Jack furrowed his eyebrows. "I ain't buyin' that."

"All right, think what ya want. But what about Brooklyn? What's goin' on ovah there?"

"What _about_ Brooklyn?"

"Hear dat Spot Conlon is losin' his touch. Poor guy. I knew he didn't have it in him."

Jack looked back behind him, completely confused. "Who are you?"

"Just call me Johns. Dat's all ya need to know." He walked past them and turned the corner.

Jack twisted back toward his newsboys. "What tha hell was that?"

All shrugged their tense shoulders.

"That was just too weird," Mush stated the obvious, yet again.

"How 'bout we call it a night, boys," Racetrack suggested.

Mumbled agreements sounded and they filed into the lodging house for the night. Jack stayed behind and took out a cigarette. "I'll be there in a minute."

He reached into his pocket and lit his last cigarette, soothingly blowing out the smoke and taking a seat on the step. _What was that guy after?_ he thought. _Why'd he ask about Spot? What _is_ going on in Brooklyn?_ Silent moments passed as he finished off his cigarette and put it out on the ground.

Suddenly, Jack felt a cold and clammy clench around his arm and he was thrown forcefully against the wall, knocking the wind out of him from the surprise. Innately, he shoved the person off him and stood at a distance from him. Johns stood before him with a wildly crazy look across his face and a stiff fighting stance.

"You tell me what's up wit Conlon, Kelly!" he growled.

"What d'you want with Spot?" Jack asked, baffled and prepared and anxious at the same time.

Johns swiftly advanced toward him and grabbed him by the collar, once again throwing him up against the wall. "You just tell me what he's doin'."

Jack brought his hands to knock Johns' arms away from his shirt and collar. "I don't know what goes on in Brooklyn."

Johns stepped back. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. "You...you just bettah be careful when ya go there," he warned, breathing rigidly.

Jack glared at him and watched Johns as he turned back around and left again. He pushed his hair back away from his face and took a deep breath. Concern taking over him, he stepped inside for the night.


	13. Tibby's

The Tibby's Restaurant sign was not too far off in the distance as Spot strode along the streets of Manhattan in the afternoon. The sky was grey with clouds and the breeze that morning had picked up to a brisk wind. Goose bumps dotted Spot's arms as he fastened his hat atop his head. The hustle of the New Yorkers did not seem to faze him as they did not interrupt his quick pace to get to the restaurant.

The small ding of the doorbell jingled as Spot stepped through the entrance. Two o'clock wasn't a busy hour and it made it easy to find Jack. He sat in the back in a brown booth, sipping some water and drumming his fingers on the table. Spot made his way toward him.

"Kelly," he greeted and shook Jack's hand.

"Hey Spot." Jack's tone was not one of particular excitement or enthusiasm.

Spot sat down across from him, taking his hat off and pushing back his hair. He let out a much-needed breath. The waiter came around and took Spot's order, just a drink.

"How's Manhattan treatin' ya these days?" Spot asked in a flat tone.

"Not bad. What about Brooklyn?"

Hesitating, Spot finally replied, "fine."

Jack squinted at him and took a big gulp of his water. Questions burned inside him and they itched to be asked. From his perspective, Spot didn't look well: his eyes looked heavier than usual, his face was paler, and he seemed miserable in general. The color of his eyes was shallow and flat as opposed to their piercing verve.

"So, somethin' sorta interesting happened last night," Jack started.

"What's that?"

"Well, we was just standin' around, me and the boys, and we started talkin' about the Bronx."

He stopped for a moment. Spot's face fell.

"This guy we didn't know came up and started askin' some questions. About you."

Spot stared at him without saying anything.

"What's goin' on, Conlon? He asked what's goin' on in Brooklyn and what you was up to. Said you're losin' yer touch."

The waiter brought around Spot's drink and he took a big gulp immediately. Still, he said nothing.

Jack sat up straighter. "It seemed like he knew who ya were, ya know, personally. Said his name was Johns."

Spot choked on his drink and set the glass down on the table with a slight force. "I was afraid of that," he responded barely audibly and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"You know him?"

Spot put his elbows on the table and held his forehead in his hands. "Did he say anything else?"

"Got a little rough, but that's about it. Spot, I was talkin' to some other guys and they said he's been askin' about you all over the place."

Lifting his head, Spot looked out the window. "Never really thought he'd come back, to tell ya the truth."

Jack was confused. "Who is he?"

Spot tore his eyes away from the outside and looked at Jack. He took another sip and got out his money.

"All right, ya don't need ta give me details. But just ta make it clear, Manhattan's got your back. You guys helped us during the strike, we'll help ya now."

Spot swallowed and looked utterly grateful but didn't want to say anything. He held out his hand and Jack shook it. Without a word, he put on his hat and left the restaurant.

* * *

Stars that weren't being masked by the wispy clouds of the night glittered in the black sky. Spot kicked a pebble in front of him, something he had been doing for practically the entire night. It must have been very late, but he didn't have the slightest idea of the time. He took a seat on a nearby bench and laid on his back, gazing up into the sky. He reached into his pockets and felt the absence of cigarettes. _Damn._

The corner he was at looked familiar, not because he had lived in Brooklyn his whole life, but because he had passed it not too long ago.

_Should I?_

_No, it's too late._

_It's never too late._

_True. Very true._

_Go._

_But-_

_If you don't do it now, you never will._

Spot sat up quickly and got off the bench, sprinting down the street. The sidewalks were empty in the dead of the night, making it easier for him to run. It had only taken him ten seconds to arrive at his desired destination.

He knocked on the door, out of breath and winded since he had gotten up so quickly. Almost a minute passed and Spot began to have regrets. The hall was dead silent, with the exception of his short breaths.

_Is this the right one?_

_Way to go, Conlon._

Finally the door opened and a breath of hope caught up with him.

"Hey," Autumn greeted tiredly and very surprised.

"Hey." The sight of her made him smile.

"What are ya doin' here?" She tried her best not to sound rude.

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood," he said quickly in between breaths.

"Oh, okay." She was pleasantly surprised.

"And I wanted to see how you were doin'."

Autumn touched the cut along her cheekbone. "I'm good."

Spot began to breath normally again. "That's good. It's not too late, is it?"

"Oh, no, don't worry 'bout it. It's only, like, two," she told him, laughing quietly.

A soft smile spread across his lips as they fixed their gaze upon each other. Autumn opened the door widely and Spot stepped inside. He stood behind her in the tiny sitting area as she re-locked the door, just in case any more, crazy, infatuated newsboys decided to show up at her home.

"So, how are-"

Autumn was cut off completely with words, from the contact of Spot's lips against hers. He kissed her passionately with his hands at the nape of her neck. Autumn, taken aback, kissed him back with the same amount of passion. A knee-wobbling kind of kiss it was. She was definitely awake now.


	14. Two Small Letters

Spot awoke to the sound of movement from another room. He lifted his eyelids slowly and rubbed the sleep out of them. His bare chest and stomach shivered in the morning cold, and he pulled the blanket up further. Looking to his left, he saw Autumn sleeping peacefully curled up in a ball. He smiled. It was weird, this feeling he had for her. He hadn't known her long and he was completely lovesick over her. Most of the girls he had been with were just for a good time, but Autumn was different and he didn't know why. They hadn't really gone on any real dates and about the only time they had to talk was after she was getting attacked in an alley, an attack which was most likely a plotted scheme. Maybe that was it; maybe that made her seem more special. One thing was for sure, though: after sleeping with her, he wasn't going to leave her like the rest.

After minutes of drifting into a state of sleep and reality, Spot finally gave up and decided to get up. He pulled on his pants, buttoning them and letting the red suspender straps fall to his sides. After a long stretch, he pulled his side of the covers over to Autumn and exited to go to the bathroom.

The sun was just coming up and he would have to leave soon. After a few days worth of not selling many papers, he figured he should add a little more umph to work today. He tiptoed toward the door and slowly opened it, careful that it wouldn't creak. On the other side of it, he shut it very slowly not to make noise.

A scream startled Spot from behind him and caused him to jump and turn around. A very puzzled Ginger stood before him in her work clothes for the day with a bemused expression upon her face. Spot stared back at her, speechless.

"You and Autumn?!" she assumed.

Spot couldn't tell if she was angry or just confused. "Uh...yeah?"

Ginger's eyes turned puppy-like and she let out a long "aww!" She bounced over to him and gave him a hug. Spot stood motionless until Ginger suddenly pulled at his ear, dragging him into the kitchen.

"If ya hurt her, I swear to god, Spot!" she warned and let go.

Spot rubbed his ear and looked at her, staggered. "It's not like that, I swear! She's different."

"Right, like I haven't been told _that_ about a hundred times!" She smacked him upside the head. "If you're gonna hurt her, just leave now."

Spot raised his hands in defeat. "Ginger, I ain't lyin'. Autumn's special to me."

Ginger paused and stared at him. She raised her hand to smack him again but brought it back down. "Then, she's lucky, I guess."

"I hope so."

She looked at him with a touch of sadness in her eyes. "I gotta go. Tell Autumn she's gotta be there soon." She turned, twisted back, and smacked him again. "That was fer me."

Spot rubbed the back of his head and watched her leave the apartment. He walked back into Autumn's room and made sure they hadn't waken her. She laid there, sleeping just as soundly as he had left her. Spot stopped for a few seconds and took in the moment. Autumn turned to her other side and he walked to the side of the bed, kissing her on the cheek.

"Hi," she greeted jadedly with half-open eyes.

"Hi. I gotta go to work. Ginger told me to tell you ya gotta get up soon."

Autumn closed her eyes again. "Okay."

Spot leaned over her and kissed her on the lips. Autumn smiled sweetly and said goodbye. He hunted around for his shirt and hat, wondering where they had gotten thrown to last night. Finally, they were recovered from the other side of the room lying carelessly on the floor. With another peck on the cheek, he put on his shirt and left.

* * *

There was an unusual fuss outside the distribution office as Spot approached it. A herd of newsies was gathered around something as chatter floated around and shorter boys jumped up to see the commotion. Spot squinted, trying to figure out what was going on. He picked up his walking speed until he broke out into a swift run, his feet not carrying him fast enough. Bolt shoved himself out of the gathering of boys and ended up a few feet from a sprinting Spot.

"Where ya been?" he demanded.

"I was-"

"Well!" he cut off dangerously, "while you were out screwin' God-knows-who, this is what happened!" He pushed people out of his way to show Spot what the ruckus was all about.

A choke rose up in Spot's throat as Thompson crouched next to an extremely beaten Roller. The poor ten-year-old was bruised and bloody on the ground next to the wall in a curled up position. His face was filthy and hurt. His clothes were torn and ripped. His arms and legs scraped and wounded. He could barely open his eyes. The only clean spots on his face were two small tear tracks traveling down his cheeks. On the brick wall was a large 'B' painted above the boy. Along the bottom of the letter were two small letters: PJ.

Spot clenched his fists as anger and hate boiled through his veins. Thompson's jaw was clenched as he looked up at Spot, troubled and bothered. Rumors rang out in Spot's ears as he stood there in shock.

"What's the 'PJ' for?" he heard someone ask.

_Patrick Johns. Pierce. Johns. **PJ.** _The boy he had played with on the streets of Brooklyn was now the vindictive ruler of the Bronx who was out to kill him.

Bolt grasped Spot's arm and pulled him away from the group, shoving Spot in front of him. He looked Bolt, surprised at the outrage Bolt was showing.

"What the fuck are you doin'? Do ya see what's happening in Brooklyn?" Bolt pushed Spot's shoulder back against the building. "Jesus, man, we trust you! Roller trusts you! If ya can't do your damn job, let me know now."

Spot pursed his lips and searched for something to say. Nothing came to him. Bolt was right. He wasn't doing his job to keep the Brooklynites safe. He had to stop letting it get to him. He had to do his job. Bolt's eyes were burning with fury as he fiercely stared at him.

"We'll go there," Spot proposed. "We'll go to the Bronx and settle this. No more of my boys are gettin' hurt."


	15. The Bridge

Autumn tapped her foot against the leg of the bench as she waited for Spot. It was around noon and she would have to be getting back to work in a little bit. It had only been a day since she last saw him and she couldn't stop smiling. She wasn't expecting Spot to show up in the middle of the night and everything else to happen, but she couldn't complain. He wasn't the self-centered, power-hungry jerk she had misjudged; he was sweet, caring, and damn good in bed.

She looked up and saw him sauntering toward her. She smiled widely and butterflies fluttered around in her stomach. He was wearing his navy blue shirt, the one he was wearing the night they met at the theater. That was when she was an idiot in thinking so badly about him. Oh, how wrong she was. And, oh, how dashing he looked in that shirt. It brought out the color in his eyes and the golden glints in his hair. She was completely in love and she knew it was mutual.

Spot smiled at Autumn as she stood up. He wrapped his arms around her little waist tightly in a hug, lifting her off her feet. Setting her back down again, he planted an affectionate kiss on her lips. Autumn closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments as Spot rubbed her back lovingly.

"I missed you," he told her.

"I missed you too."

At last, they let go of each other and sat down on the bench. Spot interlaced his fingers with Autumn's and looked deeply into her golden brown eyes.

"I can't stay long. Gotta go to the Bronx in a little bit," he informed.

"The Bronx?" Autumn repeated disappointedly. "But it's so far..."

"Yeah, we'se gotta settle something over there." The tone in his voice was apprehensive.

Autumn could read this. "Are ya gonna be okay? It's nothin' bad, is it?"

He hesitated.

"Spot, I don't want you ta get hurt," she worried and positioned herself to face him. "Aren't the Bronx newsies really bad?"

"Y-yeah, but it'll be okay. I swear," he reassured her uneasily.

Autumn's heartbeat quickened. "Do you promise?"

Spot curled a piece of her brown locks behind her ear tenderly and kissed her. "I promise."

* * *

"All right boys, let's start walkin'," Spot announced to the group of four newsboys that was going with him and Bolt to the feared territory that was troubling them so. It would be a long journey, but it had to be done.

Rain sprinkled the ground and the already dirty clothes of the boys heading for the bridge. Silence had swept through the travelers and the only sounds being heard were those of the city. It was a good silence, though; they were concentrating on what was lying ahead of them. Spot had picked the toughest newsboys in Brooklyn and he knew they wouldn't let him down.

With their famous slingshots securely in their pockets, they started the Brooklyn Bridge. Spot took a deep breath and hesitated at first. Bolt gave him a little push and didn't look at him. It was clear he was ashamed of him. It hurt Spot like hell, worse than any wound he had ever gotten. Spot skipped a few steps ahead of everyone and walked uneasily. His pulse accelerated. His palms were sweaty. His calves burned with the speed of his pace. His mind spiraled.

Thompson placed his hand on Spot's shoulder, bringing him back to reality. "You okay?"

Spot looked back at him and straight forward again. His chest moved up and down rapidly and he gulped for fresh air.

"Come on, Conlon," Thompson urged.

The middle of the bridge was near. Breathing was a difficult task and his legs quivered with every step. A few more steps and he would be exactly where he was a few years ago. That fateful day that changed his life.

Thunder rumbled suddenly, making Spot jump. It started to rain harder. He looked around at his companions. The rain didn't seem to affect them. They just kept walking as if the rain wasn't even there at all. Spot slowed down.

"Maybe we should go back," he suggested meekly.

Bolt looked at him. "We ain't goin' anywhere but the Bronx, Conlon," he replied firmly.

Spot picked up his pace again. They reached the middle and flashbacks replayed in his mind.

...**_We crossin' the bridge..._**

**Drunk and stumbling all over the place.**

_**...Isn't it a little late for yous guys ta be out...**_

**A scar in the shape of B.**

_**...We just wanted ta have a lil' chat with ya...**_

**Saw the blade glisten in the moonlight for a split second.**

**_...Let's go! We gotta get outta heah..._**

**Pinned his arms behind his back and dragged him away.**

**_...Get up! Spot..._**

**Stick with him for as long as he lived.**

Everything went hazy. Dizziness set in. Energy escaped from Spot's entire body. His head was heavy. Raindrops formed to one grey sheet. His legs gave way.

Spot's life halted for the few seconds he was on the ground. Bolt smacked at his face. He blinked back into reality, closing his grey eyes again once they came in contact with the rain. He sat up slowly and looked around at the unhappy faces around him. Bolt was the strongest of the expression.

"Are ya comin'?" he asked.

Spot stood up gradually and began to trudge on.

**Lay helplessly and already bruising on the ground...took the blade and scraped along his shoulder in a fast motion, leaving a long and thin laceration.**

Spot let out a bellow of agony, reliving the memory. He tore his shirt sleeve at his shoulder, baring the scar from the blade. He fell to his knees in a puddle of water. Bolt stomped over and yanked him to his feet, looking at him face-to-face.

"Look here, Spot..." he began angrily, "do ya understand what we gotta do? Suck it up. You have ta do this. _We_ have ta do this. We have ta do this for Autumn, for Roller, and the others this guy's gotten to. Spot, it ain't just about you anymore!"

Spot's jaw locked and no words escaped.

Bolt grimaced. "You don't deserve to be leadah of Brooklyn." He turned to the others as they started for the end of the bridge.

And then, Spot Conlon did the most dishonorable and shameful thing a Brooklyn boy could ever do: he turned his back and ran.


	16. Disturbing Behavior

**Sparks**Yes, we have to inject him with tons and tons of Spottyness!! Keep reviewing!! Your comments put me in the best mood!! Look!! I GOT ANOTHER ONE! Now there are TWO of you!!

**Angelfish**Thanks a bunch for giving the story a shot!! How lucky you are to have stumbled upon it, right?! I will try my best not to let you down. Hehe! Keep reading and reviewing!!

**Anyone else reading**...send a review! You know you want to.

* * *

Spot roamed the streets of Brooklyn, miserable and ashamed. Thick, gray sheets of rain pounded the avenues and devoured any body heat left in Spot's frail body. How many hours had passed since they were at the bridge? Two? Four? He had no clue. All he knew was that he was a useless, pitiful excuse for the ruler of Brooklyn. Bolt was right; he didn't deserve it.

Hunger rolled about his stomach as it rumbled and ached. The temperature continued to drop as night settled over the city. Spot's shirt was drenched with rain and it stuck to his body like a suction cup. His wool pants were sodden and gradually became heavier. With every step he took, a squishing noise sounded from his shoes. Futile was his newsboy cap as it lay soaking atop his dripping hair. Frequent shivers shot up and down his body and he was chilled to the bone. He wandered around the sidewalks aimlessly in search of nothing. It was as if he were in a state of shock. He had had a minor breakdown at the Brooklyn Bridge.

Spot's identifiable gold-tipped cane slapped at his leg as he walked, placed through his suspenders. Smack. Smack. The noise was irritating and infuriating. It had lasted all night and it was becoming more obvious. Smack. Smack. Like the sound of a fist coming in contact with someone's face. It was getting louder. Smack. Smack. Fury ran through his veins, heating them up and consuming the cold. Smack. Step. Shudder.

Shivers raced up and down faster. Smack. Leader of Brooklyn. Step. Useless and pitiful. Shudder. Out to kill him.

Releasing an angry shout, Spot seized the cane with a strong hold and chucked it into the vacant street, causing it to land in a puddle with a loud splash. Passersby paused for a brief moment and looked at the seventeen-year old boy with curiosity but soon went about their own ways. Spot stood at the edge of the sidewalk unblinkingly, breathing heavily and staring at the fallen object in the road. Is this what it had come to? Spot losing his touch like this and going out of his mind over a threat? He was the king of Brooklyn, feared and hated; he received threats on a regular basis.

But no threats carried the guilt as this one had.

Spot retrieved his cane from the puddle and replaced it in its rightful set. Still a little dazed and confused, he continued to wander until he came to Autumn's apartment complex. He stood in front of the brown-brick building, just staring up at the many floors. A few lights were on the in the windows as he stared upward and the raindrops splashed his cheeks. Autumn came in to his peripheral vision on his right, hurrying with an umbrella over her head.

"Spot?" she asked, befuddled.

He continued to look up and didn't say anything.

"Spot," she repeated. "What are you doing?"

_She's lucky she doesn't have to deal with newsie shit like this day in and day out, _he thought.

"All right, you don't have to answer." Autumn stepped toward him. "Let's get inside at least."

"He came back, Autumn," he finally answered and looked at her.

Autumn stood in front of him, still confused.

"He came back because I should have gone down with him that night."

She looked at his torn shirt and at the rigid scar on his skin. The thought of how he must have obtained that made her wince. She gently took hold of his hand lovingly. Without word exchange, she led him inside and they slowly made their way upstairs.

The apartment was unoccupied, as usual, with a few dim lights. Autumn walked Spot into their kitchen and set him down at the table. He rested in a hunched position on the chair and stared at the ground. Autumn took a blanket from the living room and thoughtfully wrapped it around his shoulders. She hustled around the kitchen, placing tea on the stove to be heated. After a few minutes of playing hospitable, she sat down close to him at the table.

"Thank you," he said appreciatively, and tenderly held her smooth fingers in his.

Autumn smiled warmly and looked into his eyes sympathetically. "You wanna tell me what happened?" she offered.

Spot breathed in deeply and exhaled quickly. He shook his head.

"Okay. That's okay. Whatever it is, you know I'll help you."

He gazed at her and a thankful smile slowly made its way across his lips. _You'll have a scar on your cheek and that bruise on your stomach because of me. Why would you want to help me?_ He fathomed. He knew she couldn't hear his thoughts but he almost wished that she could. It was so hard to say, though.

The room was hushed as the two could only hear the screaming thoughts chasing about in their own minds. The teapot began to scream and Autumn jumped up to pour two cups. Steam rose up wildly from the drinks as she set them down on the brown wooden table.

"Do you want me to fix that?" she offered about his shirt.

Spot looked down and his shoulders fell. It was amazing how something so insignificant could make you want to scream. "Shit..."

"Don't worry about it! I'll just sew it back up." She stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, as if he couldn't do it himself. Spot stared at the wall without feeling in his face. It ached Autumn's heart to see him so melancholy. He worked his arms out of the sleeves and stooped his back again to a hunched position on the chair. Tiny goose bumps lined themselves on his skin that was sun tanned yet looked so pale. Autumn scurried out of sight into the other room to get the needed supplies.

Spot placed his elbow on the table and his forehead in his hand, something he had grown familiar to in the last few days. His hair was still dripping a little bit, forming miniature puddles on the table. He drummed his fingers against his hairline and took heavy breaths.

A sudden forceful pounding came to the outside of the front door. Spot whipped his head in the direction of the blood-curdling sound as his heart jumped up to his throat. The beating came in rounds, with five thumps each time. Spot bounded to his feet and heaved his chest in and out. Autumn appeared in the room with his shirt in her hand and looking whiter than a ghost. Her eyes were huge and her breathing was short and broken.

"We don't usually get those kinds of knocks!" she whispered in a terrified tone to Spot. "Usually only if we didn't pay rent, but I know he paid the rent!" Her voice was squeaking on the verge of sobs. "And they aren't _that_ mean!" She trembled in her shoes and dropped the shirt to the floor.

Spot rushed over to her and placed his quaking hands on her shoulders. The thrashing intensified. He turned around and turned back to Autumn, tears now streaming down her pale cheeks.

"Go in here!" he directed and pushed her into the nearest room with a door.

"Spot, what's happening?!" she asked, frightened.

Words searched to spring from his mouth. He stood in front of her, looking at the quaking door. They heard a neighbor's voice in the hallway:

"What the hell is-"

The man's voice fell short as the sound of pistol surpassed it. Autumn let out a shriek and Spot took a surprised step backward, something unnatural to someone who grew up on the streets of Brooklyn. The beating stopped and the only sounds being heard were that of the short breaths of Autumn and Spot for several seconds. Then, a quick pointy hum planted itself at the door.

"Spot..."

Knowing he had to protect the woman he loved, he ran swiftly to the door. He pulled it open rapidly, observing the deceased middle-aged man lying in his entrance with a bloody red bullet hole in his stomach across the hall. Spot's eyes were shifted to Autumn's door, though. A long dagger acted as a tack by stabbing a piece of paper to the wood:

**Don't send your bitch boys to the Bronx, Conlon**.

The chilling, spine-tingling note formed knots in his stomach. Ferocity surged throughout his entire being. He pulled the knife out of the door and darted down the hallway, all the while alarmed tenants poking their heads out of their apartments and seeing the dead man and the speeding boy.

Spot rushed down the stairs, through the doors, and to the wet streets. To his left he found a bulky boy about his age tearing down the sidewalk, splashing up water in his tracks and shoving bystanders out of his way. Instinct got the better of Spot and he took off after him in the same fashion. He gripped the knife at his side, careful not to stab the innocent in the process.

Spot soon caught up with the assaulter and propelled him into a nearby alley, leaving the dagger on the ground. The aggressor stumbled to the ground and soon got back up, but not before Spot had the chance to seize him by the collar and hurl him into the brick wall, throwing painful clouts at him repeatedly. He punched any place he thought he deserved; the cheek, the arms, the stomach. Anywhere. The thug did not put up a fight, since he did not have the chance against the fiery rage of Spot Conlon.

Taking a split-second break from the heavy blows, Spot held him up to find Smash, one of Pierce's minions, under a bloody heap of bruises and cuts from his fist. Smash's eyes were swollen and half-open, his nose gory, his lips blood-spattered. Spot pursed his lips, furrowed his eyebrows, and launched him into the opposite wall. Smash fell to the trash-filled ground and Spot could not decipher if he was unconscious or dead. If Smash _was_ dead, he hoped it wasn't just wishful thinking. He pushed his soaking wet hair out of his face and trudged out of the alley without looking back. He knew Smash would not be troubling him anymore.

Autumn jogged down the sidewalk toward him and Spot staggered against the brick wall, watching her dash to him.

"Spot!" she cried out, running to his side.

He clutched her arms and felt his knees give out from under him. She fell to the ground with him, sobbing. Spot's head hung low and he pinched the bridge of his nose stressfully.

"What happened to my boys?" he inquired in a quiet voice.

The rain did not stop falling that night in Brooklyn.


	17. Brooklyn Mornings

**Sparks** **and Angelfish-**Yay! Spot is coming back!

* * *

Slumber came sparsely to Spot that night as they lay in Autumn's bed, watching the lightning illuminate the room and the raindrops from shadows on the wall. Autumn had gotten to sleep easily from all the stress and was soundly snoozing on his chest. Spot rested his head against the pillow with one arm around Autumn, and the other stroking her arm that was so affectionately laying on his stomach. Not one wink of sleep came to him. All he could think about was the note left on the door. _Don't send your bitch boys to the Bronx. _What happened to Bolt and Thompson? And Johnny and Glover, the other two that had accompanied them? A thought occurred to him: he should have gone down with them, just as he should have gone down with PJ. Spot closed his eyes for the first time and tried to relax his mind.

_I'm sure they're fine, Conlon._

_Yeah, right. When has anyone ever come back "fine" from the Bronx?_

_Go to sleep. Deal with it in the morning._

Spot listened to his last thought. Deal with it in the morning. He drifted off into a much-needed doze and did not open his eyes.

After hardly any hours of sleep, Spot despairingly blinked open his eyes to find that the rain had stopped outside. It was still dark, yet the barely yellow sky in the east proved that it was almost dawn. The two had not moved an inch in their sleeping positions. Autumn was still fast asleep and breathing evenly. Spot rubbed his eyes hard and yawned. It was obvious he would not be able to fall back to slumber, and ever so gently he placed Autumn on the sheets of the bed and got up. His pants were still damp as he buttoned up his shirt, complete with a mended hole on the shoulder. He placed his cold hat on his mess of hair and stepped into his boots. Just as he was about to leave the room, he went over and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Autumn," he whispered as he nudged her shoulder.

She rolled over and opened her eyes.

"I gotta go."

"Already? What time is it?" she sat up, surprised.

"I think it's around five. But don't worry, I'll see you later."

Autumn looked at him. "Okay..."

Spot unfastened his key necklace and took it off his neck. Without saying anything, he took her hand and placed it in her palm.

Autumn looked at the key, then back at him, puzzled. "But-"

"I want you to have it."

"Okay." She looked at the mysterious trinket. It reminded her of the time he saved her from the river when she was delivering it to him. She kissed him and dropped her head back down to the pillow.

* * *

The sun struggled to peak over the city buildings as Spot trudged through puddles with his hands deep in his pockets. It was almost completely dark as the day was just beginning. His head was low and he kicked pebbles out of his way on the sidewalk on his way to the lodging house. The only thing he wanted to see was the fact that Bolt, Thomspon, Johnny, and Glover were in their beds sleeping soundly. They had to have come home last night. Meetings never go into the following morning. Unless something happened.

_No. Stop thinking like that. _

He quickened his pace, eager to see if his hopes were fulfilled and his four friends were safely at home.

Vendors set up in the market for the day and store owners prepared to opened their businesses. Factory workers and children traipsed their way to work, a horrid place to spend the day. As he crossed the street, he found Jackson, a newsie few years younger than he, coming out of an apartment building. He picked up into a jog and made his way toward him.

"Jackson!" he called, successfully getting his attention.

The fourteen-year old boy turned around and blinked at the approaching fellow newsie. He did not say anything.

"Hey," Spot greeted.

"Hey," Jackson responded in a flat tone. It was clear he was displeased with the way his so-called leader had been acting lately, and he wasn't the only one.

"You heard anything?" Spot queried, fighting the temptation of punching him square in the mouth for being so disrespectful.

Jackson squinted at him. "Don't ya think you would know before me? I mean, you're the leader."

The cutting sarcasm in his tone made the anger in Spot deepen. "Well, do ya know if they made it home last night?"

"Don't think they did. I was there real late last night and didn't see 'em."

Panic rose up in Spot and clutched itself around his throat. Without saying bye, he took off down the sidewalk and sprinted to the lodging house.

_If something happens, this is your entire fault. This is your entire doing._ His feet simply could not keep up with his racing thoughts. The worst-case scenarios kept replaying in his mind. He would find out they were dead and he would have to live with even more guilt. _No, no. That didn't happen._

One block to go. His calves burned from the speed at which he was running. Beads of perspiration formed at the top of his forehead and the back of his neck formed a cold sweat. His cane smacked his hip and his slingshot moved around in his pocket. The wind blew back his hat and he did not stop to get it back.

The lodging house was coming into view. Spot's breathing picked up and the breeze whipping his face stole any oxygen he could gather. A cramp formed in his stomach from all of the running and lack of food. Almost there, almost there. A few more feet. Faster, faster. What he saw stole any breath he would ever have for a good minute.

Two figures lay against the brick building, brittle, crushed, weak, horrid, and fragile. He stepped toward them and his suspicions were confirmed. Bolt and Thompson had been beaten to practically the verge of death. Not a clean spot was visible on them; if they weren't bloody, they were bruised. They were pounded to the point of no recognition, but Spot knew that in his heart it was his pair of most trusted and loyal friends, even if his mind refused to believe it.

Tears welled in his eyes, something that would only happen on very rare occasion, as he knelt down next to them. Bolt was in an odd position in which he was curled up, knees curved, arms twisted, and head against the ground. His swollen eyes were shut and his bloody lips were closed. Scrapes and cuts lined his arms and legs, and were only visible through the holes in his clothes. Through one gap of clothing, in particular, on his arm, a deep bloody score in the shape of a "B" with an "X" through it was visible. Thompson lay opposite him, in a somewhat similar place. He, too, was severely trodden. Lacerations covered his body accompanied with welts and bruises. Spot did not want to know what kind of hell they must have gone through. But, he noticed their chests were still moving, yet only barely.

Rampant hot tears flowed down his cheeks as he stood up. He beat his fist against the brick and threw any objects close in proximity to the ground. He had never felt more hatred toward anyone in his entire life. Fury raged through his veins even though the sight of his two friends chilled him to the bone. He felt as though the air supply was being shut off and a strong hold latched itself around his throat. His mind was spinning. His vision was blurry. His body ached from clenching it so hard.

Slightly audible sobs escaped from his mouth as he plopped down to the ground next to the poor victims of Pierce, PJ. He grasped the roots of his hair with tension.

"Spot," a scratchy, miniscule voice came from Thompson.

He opened his eyes and peered down at him, grateful that Thompson was alive. "Oh, my, god...what happened? What did they fucking do to you?!" he demanded.

Thompson slowly lifted his heavy head and made his way up to a sitting position, using the wall as leverage. "They kept Johnny...and Glover..." he squeaked.

Spot broke down even more and pounded the ground with his fist. "What happened?"

"We tried...talking to Pierce and them...they didn't listen...didn't give us a chance..." Thompson coughed insanely. "First they took Johnny and Glover. One grabbed me from behind...Bolt tried to fight 'em off, but he got the worst out of everyone."

Spot clenched his fist and brought it up to his mouth, biting down hard on his tongue and looking at Bolt.

"We didn't go down without a fight, Spot...ya gotta know that. Brooklyn boys nevah go down without a fight..."

Thompson's words were weak but powerful. They were true. Thompson began hyperventilating and clutched his chest with a broken hand. "We gotta get him upstairs, Spot. He's almost dead..."

Spot nodded and helped Thompson to his feet. It was obvious that he was in less of a wretched state than Bolt was in. With sorrow and hope and regret, they picked up Bolt by his knees and arms to carry him upstairs to his bunk. Spot did not speak.


	18. Brooklyn Boys Dont Cry

**Sparks-**Yes, I agree; they are bastards. Once again your reviews make me feel all too special lol.

**Twilight-**Thanks for the review! You are awesome!! So cool to have someone else actually NOTICE my writing!

**Angelfish-**I kid you not lol. Lucky for you, I have been in a total writing concentration mode for the last few days! Yay, Spot is on his way back!!

**A/N:** I find it particularly odd that I have kept writing despite the lack of reviews I have received (nothing _at all_ against the 3 awesome people mentioned above!). Perhaps it is because it is my first story on Maybe there are people out there that read but don't review? I don't know. But if you are, you know what to do! I want to study English in college and have some form of writing career; the only way I can actually be a good writer is if I get REVIEWS!! As a sophomore in high school, I have 2.5 years until college...woohoo! Can't wait!! SO, with that, let's continue on with the winding down story that is my first published work. Have fun!!

P.S. I'm watching Newsies this very moment! Maybe I'll get some inspiration from the dancing boys on my television screen.

* * *

Ragged breaths had been coming from Bolt's mouth all day, along with the occasional, sharp cough. He had been in his bed, safely tucked in, ever since Spot and Thompson carried him up there. His face was washed free from the blood and dirt, showing clearly the torture he had endured. Sitting upon an uncomfortable chair next to Bolt's nightstand, Spot had placed his arm and head on the dusty wooden surface. Sought-after sleep caught up with him, and while his two friends rested in their bunks, Spot snoozed on his makeshift bed. It was a rough morning, to say the least. When they crept in at dawn, the newsboys had been emerging for the day, causing them to answer an endless amount of questions and dodging several.

Now the sun had made its way to the center of the sky and its rays shone brightly into the window. The room in which the boys resided in was deserted with the exception of Brooklyn's finest, two-thirds of which struggled to hold on to life.

With an aching head and tingling arm, Spot lifted his head blearily to see the bright blue sky in front of him. On the fire escape, standing so innocently was a white dove. Spot blinked. Although he had seen his fair share of doves in his life, the timing was perfect and on cue. He stood up and cracked the window slightly, allowing some fresh air to run through the room. It had become quite stuffy in there. The soft afternoon breeze swept into the room and into the lungs of its occupants. A coughing sound came from Bolt's bunk and Spot immediately turned to look at him. Bolt was tossing and turning, his hand on his chest while he coughed. He blinked slowly the one eye that could see, since the other was being masked by a swelled bruise. Spot watched intently to see if he would stay awake or drift right back into sleep. A few more blinks, and Bolt's eyes opened completely, staring up at his best friend. Neither of them said anything. Spot positioned the chair to face the bed.

Spot cleared his throat and prepared to say something, but did not get it out. He set his elbows atop his knees and looked at the ground.

"Hey," Bolt broke the silence in an abrasive and weak voice.

"Welcome back." Spot lifted his head and stared at him.

"Thanks."

He grabbed the cup of water from the nightstand and put it in Bolt's discolored hand. Bolt downed the water in a few gulps and handed it back to him.

"Feels good to be alive," Bolt said, almost sarcastically.

"Yeah." Spot explored his tense mind for words. An apology would be good to start with. "Bolt-"

"I know," Bolt stopped. "I ain't lookin' for you to get all mushy on me, Conlon." He pushed himself up to place his back against his pillow. "You know I know what you wanna say."

"Yeah."

"I can't, fer the life of me, though, figure out how this guy made ya go crazy. We all know 'bout what happened a few years back, but I always thought you'd recover. Didn't know you'd act like this."

Spot rubbed the back of his neck. "I...I really don't know what to say-"

"I know. Shut up before ya start sheddin' some tears. Brooklyn boys don't cry." Bolt gave a quick punch to Spot's arm.

Spot was amazed at how now matter how battered Bolt was, his mind would never be in the same shape as his body.

"Was it bad?"

"Well..."

"How bad was it?"

"Okay, real bad. They were huge. Bigger than we was expecting. I mean, we knew it'd be rough over there since we've been there before, but it was totally different with Pierce runnin' the show. At least with the other leader there were _some_ rules, but Pierce has got his hands full ovah there. As soon as we got there we had to fight off some younger ones. Took us forever to actually talk to Pierce. When we did, there must have been ten guys surrounding us. He said he'd rather talk to me and Thompson, then Johnny and Glover. I didn't understand at first, but I knew it wasn't a good idea. I tried tellin' them to stay with us, but they shoved 'em to another room. Whenever we tried talkin' to Pierce seriously, he'd blow it off and say he'd stop with his shit. Thompson tried speakin' up and told him it had to stop now, or else."

Spot winced. Not a good idea on Thompson's part.

"So, one of his guys went up behind Thompson and started ta strangle him. Thompson tried fightin' him off, but I knew he couldn't do it. So, I broke them up and started punchin' the other guy. While I was doin' that, another came up and knocked me out cold. I blacked out."

Spot rubbed the temples of his beating forehead. From what he was hearing, his boys were acting very un-Brooklyn-like. Was it because Spot had not gone through with the trip to the Bronx?

"I don't know what we was thinking..."

"I should've been there. I should've stopped you guys at the bridge."

"Yeah," Bolt agreed honestly.

"It ain't about you, or the Bronx, or Brooklyn, fer that matter. It's me and PJ."

Bolt stared at him and coughed a few times. Spot placed his hand on Bolt's shoulder.

"He'll get what's comin' to him, Bolt," he told him firmly. "Don't worry."

"Spot, I wouldn't go after him."

"Bolt-"

"Spot, you know I would tell ya the truth. And the truth is that if you go after him, he will kill you. I can guarantee that. We almost died over there and I don't even wanna know what happened to Johnny and Glover. For as strong and fearless and all that other shit, he's ten times better. Conlon, I know you got a reputation to uphold, but do not go to the Bronx yourself. All right?"

Spot was stunned. It must have been that bad with a warning like that. "All right."

In some ways, he had lied to Bolt. He was not going to go the Bronx. But he knew precisely what to do. It simply had to be done, and Spot Conlon was going to do it.


	19. Dancing Duel

**A/N:** This chapter is extremely long. Read and enjoy, as it will be the final chapter. Whenever you see the horizontal line, it doesn't mean a change. Everything is pretty much happening at the same time but in different places.

* * *

An eerie silence crept over the lodging house as the afternoon slowly transformed into evening. Thompson and Bolt lay in their bunks, drifting in and out of sleep. They had not moved from the beds since they got there and there was no indication that that would change. Thompson laid his right arm across his stomach, certain that it was broken. He didn't show suggestions that it was though, and it didn't hinder the fact that it had only worsened as he and Spot carried Bolt upstairs.

The fiery orange, setting sun cast its rays through the windows and created shadows here and there. Sunlight poured in and touched any place that was not hidden. A few newsboys wandered into the quarters and then out again, respecting the peace created in the room. By that time, stories of what happened in the Bronx had spread like wildfire and it was something not to be discussed while the two victims were in the room. Most had said that it was a disgrace to Brooklyn, the territory with the most esteem. They said it was an embarrassment to have their fearless leader get the shit scared out of him while leaving the others for practically dead.

Bolt turned his throbbing head to the direction of a shadow, trying to rid his eyes of the sunlight. It hurt. Turning his head hurt. He had never been in more pain in his life, which is saying a lot coming from a newsboy in New York. Talking to Spot through puffy lips earlier was a chore and the repercussions were catching up with him. Thompson awoke in the bunk to his right, sniffling and coughing painfully. They looked at each other for a few seconds, getting the full effect of the injuries.

"You hurtin' as much as I am right now?" Thompson asked rhetorical.

Bolt groaned. "Where's Conlon?"

Thompson looked around. "Don't know. Didn't you talk to him this afternoon?"

"Yeah, he said he'd be right back, but that must've been a couple hours ago."

"Well, where'd he go?"

* * *

Spot finished writing the note and folded it twice. He handed it to the thirty-year-old homeless man of pitiable and dismal state, and handed him the money. The bum gratefully stuffed the handful of change into his worn pant pockets and stuck the important note safely into his shirt pocket. He tipped his stolen hat at Spot and set off to the desired destination which would take a long time. Spot did not know if his plan would work, but something in the back of his mind said it would.

* * *

It was nearly nine o'clock at nightfall as Pierce collected his earnings from the center of the table. A group of Bronx newsboys were huddled around a decrepit and splintered table in a rousing game of poker, as if celebrating the tiny victory over the almighty Spot Conlon. Curses and other unmentionable words were muttered under the horrid breaths of the evils minions of Pierce. One even dared to throw his hand of cards at the table in frustration.

"Every goddamn time!" he shouted, infuriated with Pierce's so-called luck.

A cold set of brown eyes cast themselves upon the poor newsboy that had so dangerously and discreetly accused their dictator of cheating.

"Do you have a problem, Spike?" Pierce inquired in his rough and abrasive voice that made anyone shudder.

Spike tried to hold in his rage. "I'm losin' all my money! I ain't got any left fer food!" he screamed in response, now at his feet standing in front of a hushed group.

Pierce gathered the coins to the edge of the table and dropped them, one-by-one, into his palm as if mocking Spike's stroke of bad luck. "Spike, do you think your sob stories like that will buy you meals?"

Spike shook his head, frightened.

"Will they help you get any better at poker?"

Again, Spike shook his head.

"Right, they won't. Now, if you want to continue playing, you'll have to keep your narrow-minded comments to yourself, or else you'll be 'escorted' out. Okay?"

On the verge of urinating himself, Spike agreed. The dealer passed out the next hand. Spike held in front of his face two pairs of fives. As the bets went around and the hand was called, Spike smiled his nasty smile to himself. Watching everyone else fold, he confidently laid his hand out to full view.

"Well..." Pierce started. "Don't know what I'm going to do about this, boys."

Spike began to assemble the money to his direction.

"Not so fast, connoisseur," Pierce stopped him and put down his full house, kings over nines.

An expression of disbelief clouded Spike's face as the rage again rose up within his being. "I'm done!" he yelled and jumped up, knocking his chair to the floor behind him with a thud. A few chuckles sounded about him.

"Yes, Spike. I suppose you are," Pierce agreed coldly and mockingly. He nodded to two of his slave-servants and they expeditiously grabbed each of Spike's arms. They dragged him out of the room to where his fate would soon be determined, all the while the newsboy cursing at Pierce and screaming other obscenities.

Pierce sighed and pushed his money toward him. "So, anoth-"

A gunshot sliced the air and caused most of everyone's heads to whip in the direction to where Spike was brought to.

"Another round?" Pierce ended his sentence, the noise hardly affecting him.

Normalcy set in again as everybody's attention was focused back to the game. As the game trudged on, the ruler unfairly winning each time, a young boy walked up to Pierce and handed him a folded piece of paper. Setting his cards face-down, he unfolded it and read the familiar writing.

Whispers floated around the group as to what it would say. Fury built up immediately in Pierce, and with a bellow of anger, he retrieved a switchblade from his pocket and stabbed the table, leaving the blade to stand straight up.

"If it's a meeting he wants, it's a meeting he's going to get!" he screamed coldly. He ripped the paper to shreds and placed the blade back into his pocket. "Forgive me, boys. A previous engagement awaits me in Brooklyn."

* * *

Thankful that the intense sun was no longer in sight, Bolt leaned over and turned on the lamp on his nightstand. The small light filled his area of the large room as he stared up at the ceiling. Thompson had gone back to sleep after a short conversation. Questions buzzed around in his mind as to where Spot had gone.

The door creaked open and in stepped Autumn, dressed in her almost skimpy work attire. Bolt shifted his eyes toward her.

"Oh, my, god!" she said once she got view of Bolt and Thompson. She rushed over to him, her boots clicking against the floorboards. "What happened?"

Bolt watched her hustle across the room and take a seat on the chair Spot had once sat upon. "Ya know how we had to go to the Bronx?"

"Oh, Bolt..." She made a sympathetic face as she scanned his battered body. "I'm so sorry. Wasn't Spot supposed to go with you guys?"

He didn't say anything and blinked his eyes slowly at her.

"I see," she understood as she started to get choked up at the sight of the two helpless boys. Autumn got to her feet and made her way over to the bathroom to fill up a cup of water for Bolt. "So, where is Spot?" she asked from across the room.

"Don't know. He disappeared, seems like," Bolt responded, straining his throat.

Autumn returned with a tall, water-filled cup and handed it to him. "I have to talk to him. He was actin' all strange this morning."

"How?" he asked in between gulps.

"Well, for starters, he gave me this." She took out Spot's coveted key necklace and dangled it freely in the air.

Bolt looked at it, almost stunned. "That belongs to PJ," he told her quickly.

"Who?"

* * *

Spot cracked his knuckles nervously while waiting inside the abandoned building where Brooklyn held their meetings. It was late, really late, and it seemed as though he had been waiting forever. He sat upon a small crate, gazing at the flame of the lamp sitting at the center of the room, the building's only light. A rat scurried across his feet, startling him. Spot caught his breath and regained composure. _It's just a rat, relax._ Relaxing seemed impossible. He was going to come face-to-face with his feared enemy and oldest friend in the entire world. The one that had caused so much pain in the past few weeks. The one that nearly killed two of his boys, and god-knows-what to two others. He had sent his two cronies to torment and disrupt Brooklyn, his kingdom.

But it all came down to this. It would all be settled tonight. He looked out the window and viewed the cloudless, starry sky. The door swung open from downstairs and Spot directed his attention to the sound. He felt his slingshot in the loops of his suspenders. He felt the switchblade in his pocket. He felt the absence of his key-he didn't need it.

With every slow creak of the steps, Spot felt his heart beat faster and faster. Soon, stepping out of the shadows of the staircase and into the light of the kerosene lamp, a bulky, almost unfamiliar figure stood before him. His shaggy hair was gone and his once honey eyes were now shallow and penetrating. He stood at six feet, a build of muscle and malevolence. PJ turned his neck, giving it a spine-tingling crack. "Hey," he breathed.

Spot planted his feet in the ground and gripped his sweaty palms. "Hey, PJ."

"Long time, no see, right, Conlon?" PJ stepped toward him a few steps closer into the light. His tone was not one of friendless, but of derision and disdain.

Spot gulped and stayed firm. "Sure has been long."

* * *

"Who's that?" Autumn repeated.

"You mean, he just gave it to you?" Bolt sat up straight, examining it closer.

"Yeah, what's the big deal?" Autumn was puzzled with the way Bolt had reacted to the necklace.

"PJ was the guy from the bridge a few years ago."

"I am so damn lost..." Autumn sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.

Bolt sat up right and faced her, prepared to tell her of the story. "PJ was Spot's best friend from childhood and everything. They were walkin' home late one night from Manhattan from a poker tournament in Manhattan, the same night a meeting of the leaders was being held in the Bronx."

Autumn nodded, trying to follow along and enter the mindset of a newsboy.

"Well, Spot was a lil' drunk and really out of it. So, he and PJ were walkin' back when these two Bronx thugs started somethin' with them. Spot, bein' so drunk, couldn't exactly fight back too well. One of the guys pulled out a knife and would have almost killed him if PJ hadn't fought him off. PJ endin' up killin' the guy, tryin' to protect Spot. The police came and took PJ to god-knows-where, leavin' Spot behind."

Autumn cupped a hand over her mouth. "So PJ didn't do anything wrong?"

"Not from what I heard. But since then, the Bronx scares the shit outta him. When we started walkin' over there the other day, he fell apart."

"So why did he give me his necklace?"

"Got me. Far as I know, Spot won't let anyone touch it. Unless-"

"_He'll get what's comin' to him, Bolt. Don't worry..."_

_"...It you go after him, he will kill you. I can guarantee that."_

_Pierce Johns...PJ._

"Oh, shit."

"What?" Autumn asked, scared.

"I think he went after Pierce, the Bronx leader. I told him not to, that it was a bad idea...Oh, fuck." Bolt fumbled around for his shoes and regular clothes, agonizing from his injured body in the process. He looked up at Autumn with concerned eyes. "Pierce is PJ, Autumn."

Autumn gasped slightly. "Where did he go?"

"I think I know."

* * *

The tension skyrocketed through the rickety ceiling of the old edifice. The air was filled with it. PJ and Spot stared each other down for a few moments as the lamp flickered in the middle of the room, making shadows dance across PJ's very different face.

"So, I see Brooklyn sure has changed," PJ commented, ridiculing the idea of polite conversation. He started to pace up and down the dirty, dusty floors, its boards squeaking with every step. "You did well, my friend."

"What can I say? I was meant to stay in Brooklyn," Spot replied, implying that it was a mistake for PJ to have taken over the Bronx.

PJ smiled devilishly and looked at Spot. "It really did bother you that I chose that particular territory when I got out didn't it?"

Spot clenched his jaw, as well as his fists. Beads of sweat formed at his forehead and shivers shot up and down his back.

"I knew it would. The old leader, Spits, I believe, hated the Bronx. Said their newsies were a disgrace to New York. I figured you'd feel the same way once you took over. I guess I was right."

"You think you changed that idea, PJ? You don't think the Bronx isn't any different than it already was?"

PJ locked a cold glare to Spot. They stood, facing each other, the two most powerful and fearless rulers in all New York. One, the famous and well-respected; the other, the infamous and well-hated; both of which went back to the days of innocence. And now they stood, eager to kill the other. One looked to even the score for the citizens of his empire, and the other sought after a hateful vengeance.

"So, I gotta ask you, Conlon," PJ started, "is there is a certain reason that you called me out to my hometown on such a fine night?"

"I want you to stop this. You need to stop taking this out on my boys and Autumn."

"Autumn? Is that one of your famous whores?"

A fuming temper surged through Spot's boiling veins at his comment. He lunged forward rapidly and put a death grip on PJ's collar, shoving him backward. He held him up in front of his face with pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows.

"Glad to see you still got some fight left in you," PJ reacted. "Of course, it would have been a little more useful the _last_ time I saw you." PJ threw a numbing punch to Spot's stomach, sending him backward and releasing the hold on his collar.

Spot quickly got to his feet and stopped in front of PJ, holding up his hands. PJ stepped back as well, agreeing to the stop the temporary fighting.

"What'd you do with my boys? Johnny and Glover. Why do you still have them?"

"Oh, you mean the lackeys you sent, after we beat the shit out the other two?" He pulled out two items from his pockets and flung them across the floor. The sound of their thuds mimicked the drop in the pits of Spot's stomach. Lying on the floor were the recognizable Brooklyn slingshots of Johnny and Glover, each with their initials engraved in the wood. "Sorry we couldn't spare all of them, Spotty boy."

Spot's chest heaved in and out as the fury reached its climax. He went after PJ in the stomach, sending both of them to the floor with Spot crouching over his midsection. He delivered clouts to his face, punching him wildly and repetitively. PJ's arms eventually overpowered Spot's and soon Spot was on the floor, defending himself from Bronx-trained hits. PJ used his strength to push back Spot's fighting arms and held them above his head with one hand, leaving Spot practically helpless. Quickly, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his blade, holding in front of Spot's face and letting it glimmer in the light.

"Seem familiar, Conlon?"

* * *

Enduring an unspeakable amount of pain and agony, Bolt ran down the steps of the lodging house and out the door. Autumn followed right on his heels, frightened and panicked at the same time. They reached the night outside, pushing anyone out of their way.

"Bolt, where're we going?" Autumn asked desperately behind him.

"I know where they're at. Spot can't do this alone."

Autumn panted with anxiety, afraid of what lied ahead of them. She followed Bolt wherever he went. They darted down the crowded streets, weaving in and out of the herds of people and shoving anyone to the side if they got in their way. After almost a minute, Bolt slowed down at the abandoned factory in close range and Autumn stopped at his side.

"This the place?" Autumn queried, out of breath.

"Yeah," he panted, aching all over the place. A small, flickering light on the second floor confirmed his suspicions. They jogged over to the entrance.

* * *

Spot mustered his strength and broke one hand free from PJ's hold, and knocked the blade out of his hand, sending it flying across the room. This broke PJ's concentration and Spot took advantage of it by pushing him off his stomach.

They faced each other now, each with a bloody nose and bloody lips.

"I'm gonna make you pay for the time I spent in Hell, Conlon! We should've gone down together that night! If you weren't such a pussy, things would have been a lot different!" PJ charged right into Spot, creating another fist fight.

"It wasn't your fault, PJ, and it wasn't mine! Stop blamin' me for it!" Spot got out between dodges and punches.

"You're gonna pay, Spot. I don't care how, but you will!"

Spot gave him a final shove away from him and they stood six feet from each other. Involuntarily, he dug out his switchblade from his pocket and held it out in front of him, immediately regretting it as PJ smirked. PJ slowly reached into his trousers and pulled out a dark, gleaming revolver and stretched out his arm.

Without delay, Spot took a few steps back and held his hands up, still clutching the blade. Guns were against the rules-but, what was he to expect? He was dealing with a Bronx boy.

"Don't like my little trinket, do you, Conlon?" PJ grinned heinously. He took a step to the left, Spot mirroring him. "Surprised, you still followed the guidelines, to be honest," PJ told him. "I would have thought this would be an exception for you."

They continued to step out, as if dancing with death. Spot's breathing was short and rigid, facing the barrel of the pistol. Acceptance washed over him.

Noises of the outside city sounded but did not faze the two boys playing the morbid instruments of death that only men knew how to play. Spot gulped down the lump that had quickly risen in his throat. Tears were on the verge of racing from the corners of his eyes. He looked at PJ; he echoed Spot's countenance.

"I really don't want to have to do this, Conlon...But I have no choice."

Suddenly two figures were heard making their way hurriedly up the steps. The two broke the focus and looked to the staircase at their sides. Bolt was leading and reached the top step. Spot saw him and glanced at PJ who had a look of fatal annoyance in his eyes. His position of the revolver swiftly shifted to the direction of Bolt.

"No!" Spot shrieked just as the trigger was pulled. His stomach dropped as Bolt fell to the ground, clutching his arm and trembling violently. Autumn screeched and took a step back, something Spot was grateful for.

"Good to see you again," PJ told him and blew the smoke from the barrel.

A force took hold of Spot and sent him charging toward PJ, the knife in the perfect position to kill. PJ turned towards him and-

BOOM. A collision occurred between the two boys, along with the penetrating sound of murder and self-defense.

PJ staggered backward, falling to the ground with a dagger lodged in his rib cage. Forced breaths escaped from his putrid mouth and blood flowed from the wound. He landed with a thud as his life slowly began to disintegrate.

"F-Forgive me, Spot..." were the last words uttered from Patrick Johns' mouth.

Autumn hurdled over a live-but-suffering Bolt, and hurried over to Spot, hysterical and sobbing loudly. She cried out to him, tears running down her cheeks.

Spot stepped backward, clutching his stomach. Autumn took hold of arms, as his knees buckled and gave way, sending him to the ground. His arms fell to the ground, revealing that a bullet had penetrated his skin and started to slowly filch the life from him. Blood began to seep out of his stomach as he fought with all of his might to live. His breaths were brief and numbered. Autumn knelt next to him, holding his face and bawling, shaking and quivering.

"Autumn," Spot escaped. "I'm...so sorry..."

"Shh..." Autumn touched her fingertips gently to his lips and grasped on of his hands tightly.

"I never...meant...to hurt you."

"Spot," she cried and looked into his blue-gray orbs that were slowly winding down. "Please don't say that. Please tell me everything will be okay, Spot. Please!"

"I...I can't, Autumn..."

"Spot, you're gonna be fine. Look at me and tell me you'll be fine!"

"I love you," he whispered to her the only consistent statement he had released. He gazed at her as he struggled for breath.

Autumn's lips quivered wildly. "I will always love you, Spot Conlon," she told him strongly.

"I'll-I'll miss you...so much, Autumn." He began blinking slowly and up at the ceiling, striving more than ever to hold onto life.

"Spot, no! Look at me, look into my eyes!" She tilted his face so it was level with hers. "Please stay with me!" she pleaded, her voice weakening.

"I love you...and I'm so sorry..."

"Don't let go, Spot, stay with me!"

The grip Autumn had on his hand had loosened. His breathing was complete. His deep, oceanic eyes, the eyes that oversaw and took after Brooklyn, fluttered and finally closed. Autumn shut her eyes, refusing to believe what was happening. She placed a hand on Spot's chest, as if attempting to make out a heartbeat. She was helpless; Spot Conlon, the mighty king of Brooklyn, had saved her life three times, and she had all but returned the favor.

The air of lethal mortality filled the room of the dead factory. Its stillness reverberated through the walls and through the wind of the city. A final showdown had silenced the two leaders, putting a close to a war that was fought in the streets and hearts of one the city's most dreaded occupations. No longer was it dangerous for a Brooklynite to enter the domain of the Bronx. Its two deceased leaders had finally gone down together and a piece of New York died that night.


	20. Epilogue

**Reviewers-**Thanks for all your reviews and sticking with the story! You guys are awesome!!

**Sparks-**I've been throwing around some ideas for a new one…I've been very bored lately lol. I'll let you know once I get started on one!!

* * *

The bitter, cold late September wind nipped at the frozen cheeks of those mourning the death of Steven Conlon, better know as Spot, at the cemetery in the early afternoon. Gray and emotionless clouds settled and rested above Brooklyn and its occupants. A mass of black attire and tears consumed the small section of solid ground where two caskets sank lower into the earth. The priest completed the final prayer of the ceremony and, with a heavy heart and frozen hands, closed the Bible and made the sign of the cross. The large crowd, consisting of mostly orphans and runaways, imitated the pastor in the almost foreign act. The cleric softly spoke words that were unknown to the gathering and bowed his head in silence.

As the interment came to a close, people made their way to the grave plot to give their final respects to the two Brooklyn-born newsboys that passed away together: Patrick Johns and Steven Conlon. They had seen each other through the beginning as well as the end.

Still standing motionless as the gathering began to retreat was a petite brunette, no older than sixteen. The lack of emotion and sentiment had long since passed from her face and dripped down to her entire body. Her once charming eyes were fixed upon the headstone of her late love. Wind-blown and lethargic brown hair swooped over her shoulders that were a vision of dead black--much like the rest of her being. Inside her pale, numb hand was a coiled up piece of jewelry, meaningless to the unknowing eye. A boy of the same age and of the same emotional state stepped toward her and stood beside her. The injuries that overtook his body were a reflection of his internal feelings. He inhaled the sharp air and swallowed the lump that had been forming repeatedly in his throat. Without the necessity of words, he wrapped his left arm around the girl's shoulder comfortingly. Still with her eyes upon the grave, she leaned onto the boy's side.

"Did you know him?" she asked about Patrick in a solemn tone.

"Only as Pierce."

She closed her eyes and, for the first time all day and thinking there were no more left, shed a lone tear down her reddened cold cheek. There were no sobs or trembling lips. The boy leaned her closer to him.

"He's gone," the girl stated in an empty voice, void of any feeling.

"This place will _never_ be the same."

The girl released from his hold and slowly walked to Spot's headstone. She crouched next to it and read it:

**Steven Patrick Conlon**

**1884-1901**

The necklace had created small red marks in her palm. She uncoiled it and prepared to bury it just below the surface of the soil next to the headstone. She paused and stood up. With worn-out, red puffy orbs, she eyed the boy standing at the foot of the grave. Lacerations scraped his face, making it difficult to see if he was actually crying or not. His upper right arm was bundled up with bandages under his black shirt, covering a bullet wound. Another cold tear rolled down the girl's cheek as she got back up again and approached him.

She took hold of his left hand and placed the key inside, closing it back up again. "I believe you're in charge now."

The boy bowed his head, concealing the fact that boys of his type don't cry. "I can't keep this. It's not right."

"He would have wanted you to have it; I know this."

Exhausted eyes peered into the girl's. He closed his hand, accepting the key. Giving in, he brought his hand up and rubbed his eyes painfully as if trying to etch out what he was seeing. The girl pressed her body against his as the two held each other in the slicing frigid air.

A few moments passed, and the two parted. They made their way from the burial sight and to the first days of the rest of their lives. A blonde joined with the brunette girl as they walked back to their home. A small and recovering ten-year-old boy waited for the new leader of his territory by the gate.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks. The memory of the two friends never left a soul in Brooklyn. But mostly, it was the brave leader that never left them. He was a vision of respect and courage. Mistakes were made during his life, but it was the only human aspect of his existence. He left behind a trail that many would follow, and a completely new respect for those that reside in Brooklyn.

* * *

**The end!! I hope you all enjoyed it!!**


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